Blinding
by a-lonesome-human
Summary: "Sherlock are you seriously telling me, that it had to take Molly to get amnesia for you to even glance at her. you really couldn't have picked a worse time to come to this realisation. " rated T for violence and language. eventual Sherlolly. i just really wanted a BAMF!Molly
1. Chapter 1

**hai guys, o just decided to make this thingy-majigy because it was eating my head. also, there wasn't a lot of BAMF molly fanfic's and i'e started to procrastinate my studies with fanfiction .**

"Right, I'm heading off then. You sure you're alright?" Mary, Molly's best friend, called out.

"Yeah I'll be fine," Molly muttered, internally cursing her boss for asking her to complete a damned autopsy at 8:30 pm. everyone knew Molly wouldn't refuse; it just wasn't her nature. Besides, Sherlock popped in before and pointed out every injury on the body, why did she have to do the rest?

"When will you be done? Seriously, you shouldn't be taking so much work on!" Mary advises her. She was right too, why does she take so much work on?

"I guess, but I'll be fine. You go home," Molly assured her and hugged her goodbye. Once Mary had left, she left from working to the report and opened up the cadaver from the body bag; Mary hated dead bodies so Molly would avoid those kinds of things around her.

There was nothing unusual about the body; he had all the injuries and significances Sherlock previously pointed out. The guy had a pale complexion along with pale hair; an albino. She knew an albino before, his name was Henry. Henry used to attend the same university as her except he was a psychology student. They were great friends but never went any further than that; they were a lot like siblings.

She continues to unzip the bag and didn't notice anything unusual. She opened the eyelids to see one a perfect shade of baby pink, the other completely scarred in the shape of a leaf.

Wait, it couldn't be. No, she was wrong; it couldn't have meant what she thought it meant; it couldn't be! What should she do, call the police? Lestrade?Sherlock? Even though she would never willingly call him, Mycroft?

She grabbed her iPhone from the counter and dashed back to the cadaver, suddenly worried that the body could get up and walk away.

Instead she dialled the number to "Maria" when a hand clamped over her mouth. She dropped her phone and froze, prepared for what could happen next.

"Bad decisions, Missus, bad decision… Molly," the deep tone boomed through her ears. Once she cleverly planned out what to do, she opened her mouth as wide as she could, and bit his hand cloaked in leather.

When the opponent let out a grunt (in response to her not so anticipated attack), she used her free arm, and jabbed at the defined stomach with as much strength as possible. Shocked, from the impact such a small girl could give; he instinctively holds onto his stomach, giving Molly enough space to run.

But she didn't run; she was more curious to know who her attacker could be. His face was deathly pale, like a moon tossed upon clouds. She could see a lot of his facial features even from the lack of light, he was rather tall and rather handsome, but what struck her the most was his almond shaped eyes that seemed to glow in the dim lights. He seemed familiar, almost too familiar.

He rose back to his feet, ready to approach his target. All the determination faded from her once she realised who he could be; she froze. Her opponent ploughed on her; using all of his weight to keep her down.

"You're gonna pay for that you little cow," he snarled in a familiar French accent.

_Think fast Molly think fast_.

Semi consciously, she gathered all the saliva in her mouth and spat on his face. bewildered by her ridiculously silly acts of defence, he blinked even a second to spare, she uses all of her energy to throw her head onto his face, and his grip lightened as he recoiled in pain. She used this opportunity and ripped her arms free from his cage; raked her newly manicured fingernails deep into his cheeks. She pushed him away from her and got up, completely unaware of what she done.

She dashed back to the cadaver and grabbed her phone to call the police.

"Now, Now, Molly; just stop for a minute and come with me," the voice sent shivers down her spine.

"Fuck off Sebastian, you can go to hell," she insulted through gritted teeth, turned around to see a trail of blood from his cheeks. Did he really think she'd listen to him after that?

"Well then," Sebastian started. He threw the pathologist in his arms with plentiful ease, and held a shard of glass to her throat.

"I think you know what's going to happen next,"

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"What do you mean we have to see the body again?" Lestrade rushed to keep in pace with the consulting detective.

"If I'm correct, then I may have missed a rather crucial injury of the body," Sherlock began. The two men flung the doors to St. Barts.

"Okay and what's that?" Lestrade began

"The pattern, Lestrade, the pattern! The eye was gouged out in the shape of a leaf,but not any kind of leaf, a needle leaf. This could only mean that that same serial killer that killed those other three doctors are involved in this case." Sherlock explained his deductions

"I see... but i doubt anyone would even be here," Lestrade answered. They headed towards the morgue but Lestrade stopped once he heard a shrill feminine scream that was cut off by a man shouting back.

"Would you shut up?" the voice roared.

"Go to hell!" Molly screeched equally as loud.

He caught up to Sherlock, who was sprinting to the morgue as they both called out for her.

"Molly!" Sherlock yelled in his deep smouldering, baritone; not aware that what he just distracted her by enormous amounts.

He flung the door open to see Molly sprawled on the floor, a man shrouded in black placed his arms high above his head; clutching onto a shard of glass.

"Sherlock," Molly calls out, her eyes fixed on her opponent.

as he swung down to dig the shard deep into her spine, she quickly rolled next to the cadaver; cleverly avoiding the blow. she grabbed the scalpel, that was placed beside the dead body, and gingerley swung it at his leg; staining the polished metal to a deep crimson metal as it cut through her opponent's flesh.

he grunts in anger more than pain; and uses the same leg she mutilated to knock the wind right out of her.

"Urgh," she managed to breathe out, before falling limp onto the bloodied floor.

"Molly!" sherlock exclaimed and rushed to aid. he stroked her hair matted with blood; presumably her own. her head was bleeding, along with her forearm. she must have broken a bone or two, after all she just fought a guy almost a foot taller than herself!

"Where the bloody hell did he go?" Lestrade suddenly asked, also fixed on Molly and her current condition.

"I don't know, i wasn't paying attention to him" Sherlock admitted.

_focus Sherlock, focus, who the hell could he be? _

the man was around six foot, wore black clothing even down to the gloves, except he didn't wear a mask so he probably wasn't intending to anything serious. he was rather pale, which could indicate that he was either very ill or under stress, it was most likely to be the latter since he had a lot of bags under those almond eyes. the fact that he didn't attempt to cover his face means that he was probably intending to meet Molly, he probably intended to scare her.

he was rather surprised with the fight she put up; he was rather... impressed. he turned back to Lestrade ,who was barking commands into his phone, and then back to Molly, whose heart beat was becoming less and less consistent.

"This is a hospital, WHERE THE HELL ARE ALL THE DOCTORS?!" Sherlock roared yet again, cradling the woman in his arms; if only she were awake to see his displays of affection.

"I'll go get them," Lestrade offered, oblivious to Sherlock's unusually worried reaction

_please be okay Molly, please_

**what do you guys think? please feel free to rate, review, follow, whatever! **


	2. Chapter 2- let the games begin

**an: well here's the next chapter, unfortunately it might not meet your expectations, so i'm sorry for that. this chapter would probably leave more questions than answers, but hopefully next chapter we will make things up! **

"Molly, Molly, speak to me," Sherlock prompted the pathologist to speak to no avail; she simple remained limp and unconscious, not even a groan or whimper escaped her lips.

_This is bad, really bad _

The pool of blood, sourced from Molly's head injury – along with her bleeding forearm and a new abdomen injury he just discovered - only continued to expand; even soaked Sherlock's scarf. He checked her pulse and found her heart beat slow, but steady; a much better improvement from her inconsistent ones a few minutes ago. He had no idea what to do; if only John were here!

Once the damned paramedics made their delayed arrival, ( funny, seeing how they were only a few floors above), they took the unconscious pathologist away from Sherlock's reluctant grip; a mixture of concern and relief washed through his body, two very unfamiliar emotions.

The same paramedics also placed a shock blanket around his shoulders and , this time, he didn't refuse. He walked to the exit of the hospital only to find a frantic Mary consoled by John; they were probably informed by Lestrade. The couple turned to the consulting detective, expecting some sort of explanation.

"W-what happened?" Mary hiccupped.

"Molly had been attacked," Sherlock answered plainly.

"Why? Why did someone hurt her like that? She's Molly!" Mary shrieked as if Sherlock was to blame for it all, only to be consoled by John, yet again.

"I know she's Molly, but the incident wasn't solely targeted at her. The culprit was after the body she was working on," he answered her. "She was just someone unexpected, and troublesome. This case is definitely worth an eight."

"i wouldn't be too sure about that,", Lestrade approached the dumbfounded consulting detective; slightly taken aback with the shock blanket.

"What do you mean this case is an eight?" John asked coolly; used to his friend's tangents.

"well, the motive definitely makes this case special," he answered his best friend who was remained silent for a long time.

"Once we find that out," Lestrade intervened. "You'd actually be shocked with what the surveillance cameras got," he gestured for the consulting detective to follow him out, only to watch the six foot tall man wait for John's approval.

"Aren't you coming?" He asked John, slight worry in his voice.

"Nah, it's fine," He said, gesturing to Mary who started sobbing again. Sherlock simply nodded and walked off with the DI.

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The two men could not believe what they saw; Molly actually tearing apart a man that was practically a foot taller than herself!

"Wait, stop there," the DI told the security guard and also happened to wake Sherlock from internally praising the pathologist's move.

The security guard stops at Molly swearing: "fuck off Sebastian!"

"Sebastian?" Lestrade thought aloud. "Did you get look at his face?" he asked Sherlock.

"Yes, it was rather dark, but i noticed he was very pale, and had bright amber eyes. He also spoke with a French accent, as we can see from his exchange with Molly; and he also did know her. This proves that he wasn't expecting her, but when he saw her, it triggered some sort of innate anger that caused him to lash out at the woman. Or it could mean that he was aware of everything and decided to play his cards," he deduced, then slumped to his chair.

"I don't have enough evidence here!" he suddenly shouted, which caused the security guard to jerk, clearly not used to the detective's antics.

"you need more evidence?" the DI asked.

"Yes! Why is that so hard to believe?" Sherlock responded incredulously.

"Normally you only need one piece of evidence, it can be a strand of hair, and you'll be able to deduce what the victim ate for breakfast!"

"What, a strand of hair won't help me deduce what someone ate for breakfast! Oh, wait! Of course, why wasn't i thinking? It's the body, the body is missing so he was obviously looking for it. Molly was just a surprising, and familiar, face after all!"

Sherlock couldn't understand why he was so confused, he never doubted his reasoning for a second before, so why was he now?

"Molly," he stated plainly.

"What about her?" Lestrade answered.

"I need to get answers from her once she awakens," he stated.

Lestrade realised the reason for Sherlock's loss of deduction; he realised the thoughts of Sherlock's mind a long time ago. It was mainly because he spent more company with the man-child, more so than John, and he always noticed how different Molly was treated compared to all the other women they had the courtesy to meet. So rather than questioning Sherlock's train of thought, or lack thereof, he decided to aim for a different tactic.

"And what about you Mister Knowles? Why didn't you see this while it happened?"

"Actually, i only came on shift ten minutes ago, when i came this place was empty," Mr Knowles, the security guard, admitted.

"And that man, i know him. He used to date my sister a few years ago," he also let out, which caught Sherlock's attention.

"You do? Who is he? What's his name?" Sherlock suddenly turned to the night officer in surprise.

"Well, i don't remember. But the security tape makes me think his name is Sebastian," the guard answered in Sherlock's usual manner, which amused the DI.

"Great, so we have nothing," Lestrade concluded.

Just then Anderson burst in, a look of dread plastered all over his face.

"We found a note," he started. " i think it's directed at-"

"We don't need your opinions Anderson," the sociopath sneered in his usual coldness.

**_Dear "Molly" _**

**_Looks like there's a new game in town, and guess who's playing? _**

**_As you may know there are no rules to this competition, but i beg of you: please, let this one start with a bang and end the same. We don't want another case of fake suicides now do we? _**

**_Can't wait to see you dance_**

**_Love Sebby dearest. _**

"What in the name of hell," Lestrade breathed out, hoping it wasn't what he was thinking.

The memory of Sherlock's alleged death remained fresh in his memory, the feelings of guilt and responsibility still remained; even though he knew there was no reason to feel that way anymore.

He remembered Sherlock referring the whole incident as a game, and he certainly hoped that that wasn't going to happen all over again.

"This is... i-impossible," Sherlock spat, and turned the paper to see any other sort of evidence.

And he did find another sort of evidence, a final message painted in either blood or red paint. The scent made him think it was the former, though he hoped it'd be the latter.

**_Let the games begin _**

**AN- hope this was alright. what are your thoughts and opinions? please don't hesitate to tell me whatever you think about this! :) (and don't worry, there will definitely be more fight scenes involved!)**


	3. Chapter 3- deceit

**Hey guys! I've come with chapter 3, though i must be developing some kind of writers block, this chapter was difficult to write**

After , Molly escaped her coma induced nightmares and awoke to reality at 5 am. She could hear alarms go off and felt the tubes hanging from her arm and mouth. Alarmed, she jumps upright and finds herself in a hospital room.

_What happened?_

She looks down at her hand, as she pulled off the tubes, and noticed small marks on her left wrist, she pulled her sleeves and found a long pink scar that followed; embedded on her skin.

"Ah, so you've finally woken up," a deep voice from the window broke the silence. Her brown eyes flittered from her arms to the window, to see a man sitting on the windowsill; his bright amber eyes stared intensely outside.

_Who is he?_

He noticed her shaken state and relaxes a little.

"relax, I'm not going to hurt you." He soothed.

_Why would he want to hurt me?_

"it's just, when i saw you the other day, i thought you were aware of the game." He turned to Molly and she saw a long deep scratch mark scarred on the left side of his cheek. Her vacant expression helped him realise how unaware she was to everything.

" you forgot what the game is. Idiot." He sighed.

" it's when two people, two powerful people that cannot be controlled by the government and other stupid forces, are made to play a game. The last game occurred three years ago and the two of us played a vital role, but there's a new better game now. And the competitors are you and i ," Molly was still confused, nothing he said clarified any of the questions floating her mind.

Well of course it wouldn't; she didn't even know her own name! He rolled his eyes at her obliviousness (yet again) and continued.

"it's a game where two people have to play. The winner lives and the loser dies!" he spoke to her as if he was speaking to a child.

"And the theme for this game is: action. You better not let me down either," he rolled out of the window and the noise of his landing rang in her ears. She threw herself out of the bed, despite every ache her muscles made, and looked out of the window. Gone. The man was gone.

With nothing left to occupy her, she decided to turn and reflect. Her name was... Molly. She's in the hospital because... she couldn't remember. Her home was... somewhere . Her age is... she didn't know that either.

She turned to her bedside table and picked up a mirror. If that wasn't there, she wouldn't have known how she looked either. She opened the envelopes and cards sent by many people, Mary, Greg, Mrs Hudson, Anderson, Donovan, Maria and Henry. Who are these people?

"you're awake," a male voice came from nowhere, it scared her so much she dropped all the things in her possession.

"Sorry, i didn't mean to startle you," he apologised, and deduced her quickly.

"You do recognise me right?" he asked. She didn't. She didn't even recognise herself, but she thought fast. Who else would want to visit her so early?

"Yes." She nodded. "You're my doctor," she responded, only to see his face fall; which indicated that she gave the man the wrong answer. Well it made sense that he wasn't, which doctor would wear a suit to work, or carry an umbrella in such warm weather?

"No. Mycroft Holmes. Does that ring a bell?" she stared blankly, too tired to respond. She felt as if she'd been suddenly thrown to an alternate universe, and had to carry out the role everyone else refused to do.

"Retrograde amnesia, most likely from head injury. Miss Hooper, i think you should come with me," he offered, but she didn't move; not trusting the man.

"We can just talk here, i mean, it's early, and no one would disturb us. And you're here pretty early so i think this is serious," she deduced, which pleasantly surprised the man.

"I see why my little brother is fond of you. Not that you'd remember him. You are correct, of course, but seeing your current condition, i think we should focus on your recovery before we talk about anything else." He began. "I'm sure you would like answers, and i would too. But unfortunately, your amnesia has created a lot of room for mystery."

He explained to her about the assault two weeks ago, and how she has to play the game. He also told her that his brother was made to play the game in which he successfully won; he didn't include how it was thanks to her it was all possible. He also told her that she contains the answers to this situation, well used to anyway, and gave her a quick introduction to all of her old friends.

"Mary Morstan: your best friend Greg Lestrade: a detective inspector who quite obliviously is infatuated with yourself but you're too oblivious to realise it yourself. Mrs Hudson: a nice elderly woman who you don't usually talk to. Anderson and Donovan: two people from Scotland yard that you're not very fond of. and i assume Henry and Maria are your friends," he finished and got up.

"Wait!" Molly stopped him.

"W-what about us? Who are you to me?" she asked, clearly bewildered and too frightened to stay alone. A small smile played on Mycroft's lips.

"We have no relationship. We only talked when my brother was in danger." He answered briskly and walked away.

She looked up at the clock and realised two hours have passed. Funny, because even though Mycroft gave her the basics and briefed her for two hours, she still felt completely lost.

_Okay, so my name is Molly Hooper, i am thirty-one, i am a pathologist. I have to play a dangerous game which requires a winner and a loser. I have to play the game otherwise the people i love would die. I suffer from retrograde amnesia so i don't know who these people are, and because of my amnesia, all the answers to a lot of answers are lost. _

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Mary paid a visit her unconscious best friend, as she always did at four in the evening, but saw something she did not expect: a conscious Molly limping around the corridors. She told her friend, after a warm hug that Molly flinched rather than returned, that she and her husband were looking after the house and her cat, Toby, in her absence. She also told her friend that she has another two weeks off which Molly refused to take because she wanted to know more about her life than to be forced to stay in her apartment with strangers all day.

She also told her about everyone else, and how concerned they were about her well being. Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan had been extremely busy working on a lot of cases that only seemed to have doubled lately, she and her husband, James (Molly thinks his name was), have been busy looking after the house. Mrs Hudson was meaning to pay Molly a visit but didn't get around to it because of her hip and Sherlock had been busy organising various works in that mind palace of his; and had generally forgot that the Earth revolves around the sun.

According to Mary, Sherlock has been very upset over the assault, which Molly found hard to believe, especially because she hadn't heard of his name until her alleged friend just mentioned it.

Her old friend Henry also came frequently to see Molly, but Mary refused to let him stay because she never met the man and was unsure whether Molly did too. Well they wouldn't ever know now, but Molly was sure she did know him; there were lots of cards she received that was sent by him.

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After an awkward night in her own house, Molly awoke three hours late and left to find Mary where she was before she left to her room; her husband nowhere in sight.

"Are you okay Mary?" Molly asked timidly; the name Mary did sound familiar on her lips.

"Yes, it's just, they're working on another case. Murder " she sighed in response.

"The victim is someone they knew. They said his name is Devon Knowles, the security guard at the hospital,"

**So i hope you liked it! Please, tell me what you think, i really like to hear your thoughts and opinions. And hint for next chapter: some sassy Molly and Sherlolly fun! oh yeah, i said this chapter will clear some things up... well *nervous laughter* it sorta didn't *flees***


	4. Chapter 4- somewhere

"What do you mean, I'm no longer needed?!" Sherlock seethed through his teeth, stupefied from those words.

"You heard me Sherlock. Neither you or me can take part in the investigation anymore," Lestrade sighed, not wanting to explain how they are now "personally" involved in the case for the thousandth time. He himself was left feeling frustrated over this, especially after leaving the Chief Superintendent's office.

The incident only motivated him to get the case solved sooner; all for the sake of Molly Hooper. Sherlock, on the other hand, was left in a state of shock that was acted out with him self-arrested in his own flat; hardly eating or sleeping, just wandering around in the mind palace of his.

"Don't be ridiculous; you guys need me," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, yet there was a tinge of irritation that blended into that deep baritone.

"Sherlock, he's right. There's nothing we can do if we're not wanted," John's voice suddenly reminded the two that they are not alone; in fact, a lot of nosy members of Scotland Yard were watching the two square off. After observing each nosy member Sherlock, Surprisingly, did calm down; well he took a few steps away from Lestrade, stood for a few good minutes and finally, and unusually, said: "I understand, have a nice day," before strolling off with the small doctor behind him.

If those words reached any other person, they probably wouldn't have understood the implications. But this was Greg Lestrade, one of the three people the consulting detective would risk his life for; therefore he understood what was going to happen next; and he wasn't going to stop them either.

What the bloody hell were Scotland Yard thinking? These serial killings will only go on longer without Sherlock's help; he hoped that things do go haywire without him, that way they would realise what a terrible mistake they have made. Even then, Sherlock wouldn't return to their aid.

"So what are we doing now?" John asked

"Now, we do what we always do,"

"Go home?"

"No! Besides we live in different places now,"

"You mean, you still want to figure this out, even though they chucked you out?"

"Yes, that's exactly it, and they did not chuck me out. They chucked you out, because of the close relationship you and one of the alleged victim shares, and I was just being a good friend and followed," Sherlock walked on, didn't notice John pause at his obvious lie, and ranted along the way to their next destination.

"How dare they John, how dare they? Did they think I'd allow them to treat my friend like that? I hope they re-consider and re-evaluate their doings, but even if they did ask for my help again I'd refuse to co-operate. Oh what a terrible mistake they've made!" John remained silent and listened to his friend repair his broken pride.

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Molly had; apparently, arrived to her work two hours later than usual, but her boss and other workers let her off. In fact, they've been nothing but nice and have done so much work on her behalf, she had practically done nothing to do. Well she did tour the new pathologist Henry Moore, who had the palest complexion she had ever seen. Needless to say; the tour was more beneficial to her than it was to him.

"So how's it like working here?" Henry asked to, probably, start conversation.

"Well, it depends really, I like it," she answered vaguely.

Occasionally she'd hear from other colleagues, questions about a cadaver she worked on three weeks ago or the file report that has yet to be submitted, but she'd always answer as ambiguously as possible.

She wished she hadn't listened to Mycroft! Why did she listen to him, especially since he was unimportant and that they had "no relationship" as he so bluntly put it? She considered going up to the ward and consulting her doctor about her loss of memory many times, after all she had nothing better to do; especially since every colleague seemed interested in letting the boredom eat her brain.

She sat beside the busy Henry. Funny; Mary told her that her friend Henry tried to see her many times, even though she doesn't remember a Henry. When he caught her staring, she flinched as if she caught doing something shameful.

"Do you think we can leave now?" he asked, not even bothered to hide his enthusiasm.

"You got to finish off with that body first," she pointed out. "In fact let's test your skills, tell me what you got,"

"Well…" Henry started, watching Molly examining the body intently.

"The man is called Ezra Knowles, a security guard at this hospital. He's middle aged, no children but has left a mourning wife. He has multiple injuries; his jugular vein has been ripped open along with extensive bruising around his back. The wound is very jagged and small, which indicates that a small weapon has been used. A fight probably broke out which killed him," he concluded.

"Wrong." two voices echoed in unison, both Henry and Molly to turn to the mystery voice. Molly did mean to show the new trainee his mistake, but didn't expect someone else to join in.

Out appeared a very tall man; his blue crystal eyes made instant contact with Molly's brown ones.

After she asked him to stop observing and deducing her, he did; but this time he couldn't help himself. Her posture is much taller and straight than usual, and her hair is let out, compared to it usually being tied up: signs of insecurity. She recently took a bath; he can smell the scent from a mile away. She's only been let out yesterday; she's extremely pale and claims to be perfectly fine: which means that she deliberately chose to leave and not recover. Something strange was going on. He decided he'd approach the issue later; he didn't want their interactions to constantly consist of him publicly embarrassing her.

She was the first to look away and turn back to Henry.

"Well don't worry about how it all happened, we'll work on the rest tomorrow," she kindly offered.

"There's no need for that, I can get it done for the two of you right now," the curly haired man suggested.

"Well, I guess I'll be going. I'll see you tomorrow Molly," Henry said and left; leaving Molly with a man that gave her traces of anxiety in her stomach.

"What do you need?" she asked, echoing her words during the reichenbach incident .

"What do you mean?"

"You seem... lost. tell me what's wrong," she asked, wanting to cheer the man up. this surprised him a bit; despite her own problems she still wanted to help others.

"Tell me, what do i work as?" he asked, taking a step close and closer as he spoke those words; observed every single expression travel across her face.

"y-your job?" she couldn't think of anything and the man violating her personal space wasn't that helpful either.

_Confusion, panic, thought, uncertainty _

"Well you didn't answer me, so why should I answer you?" she thought fast. After a few minutes of silence, he answered first.

"You're hiding something, and I'd rather figure it out than embarrass you in front of others,"

"Oh, how kind of you?" she remarked slowly backing away from the man till she hit a wall. Unfortunately he followed her, and made no space to let her out.

"Well you know my name, right?" he asked, only to have the silence answer him.

Out of nowhere, he pressed his fingers around her small throat; enough force to make her struggle yet not feel a high sense of pain. Instinctively, she grabbed his ear and pulled it with enough pressure to make him ease his grip on her. once his grip loosens, she slams into him, knocking him on the cold floor, pinned his shoulders with her arms and his legs with her knees. with no other limb free to attack, she used her head to hurl down to his, making more than slight contact.

"Oh don't do that. That will only make your head injury worse," he complained.

"Wha-"

"Retrograde amnesia, head trauma; most likely when that man kicked you on the head. You seem to possess fine knowledge of looking at bodies and fighting, by which I had no idea you possess knowledge of, and yet you don't seem to remember me," he spat, which made her stop in her tracks.

"Well I hope your happy! Yes I have amnesia and I don't even know what to do because that stupid Mycroft Holmes told me to keep my mouth shut and I blindly followed. And then there's the elusive Sebastian who I only seem to know, and too bad; I don't even remember who the hell he is! And there's you; some arrogant twat who shows up as if I'll let him examine a body without even knowing who the hell you are and walking all over me!" she practically shrieked those words; the man even flinched when she referred to him as a "twat."

"I do not walk all over you, and my brother was in on this?"

"You tried to strangle me!"

"I was testing my hypothesis!" he defended himself.

"By strangling me?"

"Well… okay that wasn't wise," he trailed off in thought.

"That wasn't wise?!" she mimicked, her grip tightening on his shoulders.

"Okay, i apologise," he muttered.

"Oh, you think sorry is gonna cut it?" she spat; waves of nostalgia hitting her stomach as he reached to her and kissed her on the cheek; only to be thrown down again.

"S-Sherlock," she whispered in recognition. Out of all the memories she could recover; why did it have to be the Christmas disaster?

"Yes, I am Sherlock," he started "The world's only consulting detective and your friend,"

"Because friend's strangle one another to prove a hypothesis," she mocked.

"Look, Molly, that was wrong of me, and i am truly sorry. Please let me out of this...cage," he asked.

She believed him, despite his actions, despite the fact she only remembers him mocking her; she believed him.

"yeah right! Some friend you are, i didn't see you once in the hospital, you left no card, nothing," she retorted

"I visited every day," he answered, a flicker of hurt registered in his eyes; only to be quickly recovered and replaced with his usual apathy.

"Y-you did?" she fumbled over her words; it made her a little happy. That he actually visited her; though she didn't understand why of course. Just as she was going to let go of him, John walked in; annoyance painted on his face, only to be replaced with looks of shock and amusement.

"Did i miss something?" he asked, referring to Sherlock pinned down to the floor by Molly's petite body.

"I-i-i-it really isn't what it looks like," Molly began. Sherlock noticed the hidden message between those two, and rolled his eyes.

"As if it would," Sherlock retorted, more focused on freeing himself.

"Oh don't worry," John sighed and turned to Molly. "i know the feeling."

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After that awkward reunion, Molly and Sherlock decided to observe the body once more.

"What's a consulting detective?" she asked.

"My occupation," he explained in his usual style.

After a huge eye roll, Molly went back to examining the body.

"There's a strange sign on his eye," she started; and caught his attention.

"it's a... needle leaf, i think," she concluded.

_A needle leaf, just like all the other victims of those murders. Oh Scotland Yard, you're missing out. _

His train of thought was being attacked by John's loud chewing. He looked up to see John biting into a pear, annoyance clear in his eyes; then he turned to Molly.

"Do you recognise him?" he asked her.

"Am i meant to?"

"So i take it you don't," he sighed.

"He's Mary's husband, i take it you know her, after all she is staying with you. You two became very close after the reichenbach incident." He concluded.

_What's the reichenbach incident?_ She wanted to ask, but his look of resignation told her otherwise.

Sherlock was tracing the bruises, they looked like numbers. Wait a minute: numbers! Of course, the killer left him a set of co-ordinates to find him. Oh of course; but how unique, rather than branding the numbers on his skin through cuts of burns, he did it with bruises; what a brilliant, and incredibly sadistic, plan.

"Of course!" Sherlock bellowed in shock.

"Wha-"

"I'll talk to you two later," he said briskly and dashed out to a cab.

**i hope this chapter was fun to read as it was fun to write! i made it a bit long winded, so i'm sorry :( and i won't be posting until after my exams, so yeah, till then i guess!**


	5. Chapter 5 - the calm

**( i know i said i was busy studying... but procrastinating with my studies is my only talent. but on the plus side, i did a new chapter, so enjoy!)**

Molly and John exchanged glances after Sherlock had run out the room like a crazed maniac. Well he did seem to be like a crazed maniac anyway. Molly felt familiar with his habits; well familiar enough to know that strangling one another was just him pushing the boundaries to their fissure of their relationship; that is if they had one, she wasn't so sure. But then again, he did visit her every day ... but was he even being truthful?

She shook those thoughts out of her head and continued to work on the cadaver.

"He killed himself," she thought aloud, catching John's attention.

"He did?" he asked, gingerly approaching the body.

"Yeah, you see how awkwardly cut his throat is? It's cut from the left side of his throat then towards the front, not from the left to the back. The man must have cornered him and that was his only way out," she concluded and looked up to see the man beaming.

"Wow Sherlock really does underestimate you," he breathed out; she thought it might have been a compliment. Did she really let Sherlock walk all over her like that? She smiled curtly and turned back to the body. The bruises formed funny shapes; in fact they formed numbers, which John had just pointed out to, probably, show that can also deduce.

"What could they possibly mean?" Molly asked.

_ A phone number? No. A safe number? Probably. A safe number to what? And if it is, then why is it patterned on a dead body, rather than paper? The killer wanted to someone to see this. _

" The killer wanted Sherlock's attention," John answered, in sync with Molly's thoughts. She wondered what for, but oh well; that wasn't her problem.

"do you have an Atlas?" he asked her. Perplexed by such a strange question, her brows furrowed. This was a morgue, not a school or a shop.

"You can always check your phone... apps perhaps?" she reminded him sarcastically, although her tone seemed as if she was speaking to a child rather than her being sarcastic. He flicked through his Smartphone, checking to see whether his prediction is correct.

" Bernado's Orphanage?" he thought aloud.

_Bernado's orphanage._ Waves of nostalgia surged through Molly's stomach.

_H-he's talking about the orphanage! The Orphanage she was sent to when her father died, when she became an orphan!_

"Where's that? London?" she asked.

"Yep, well i guess I've got to go there too," he answered and gave her a smile before he left.

_Bernardo's orphanage. Huh._

_"Have you really lost your will to live?"_ a youthful male voice rang in her head.

_"i-i don't know. it's just- there's nothing to live for now. This world sucks, and there's only a place for people who happen to have the right people in their lives. I have nothing," a little girl's voice answered dully _

_"I'm here! and so are lots of other people! Look let's make a promise, if you die; i die. Okay?" _

_"What? I can't let that happen to you! Besides you wouldn't even do it," _

_"Okay then, let's change the question... hmm... let's say that one of us were so unhappy and we couldn't do anything to change that; how about we try and help each other relieve that pain no matter what?" _

_After a moment of silence the girl answered _

_"Okay, that sounds much better," she shook hands with the little boy, his eyes bore into hers _

_"I promise i will be the right person in your life to give you a place in this world," _

The recollection sent shivers down her spine; did a kid really promise her that he'd kill himself if she did the same?

Suddenly feeling very lethargic, she packed her bag, after putting the cadaver away, and headed for the exit, ready to go to what was her "home."

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Mary had been busy cooking and practically babied the pathologist. She wasn't allowed to get out of the sofa without Mary asking what she was up to, she couldn't even get a drink herself because Mary was so persistent to go and fetch it for her. Though it made her feel more uncomfortable than she thought she would have felt; she appreciated her friend trying to help her recover. After running around and doing endless , and needless , work, Mary finally decided to take a seat next to her best friend.

"How was work?" she asked.

"Normal, i suppose, but then Sherlock and John pranced in," she answered, an answer that tickled Mary.

"Was Sherlock being the usual asshat he is?" she asked, smirking. Molly was tempted to tell her about the whole fiasco, but something in her head instantly told her to shut up. after all, it would jeopardise an awful lot of things; and Mary would be more than pissed to know that her best friend didn't even remember her last name.

"When isn't he like that?" she answered vaguely yet perfectly, then Mary fluttered her eyelashes.

"When he's around you silly," she teased, and pulled Molly's head down to her shoulder.

"Aw, are you telling me you can't even tell how well mannered he is around you? He hardly insults you these days, he's much more subdued around you, he doesn't order you around. If that isn't him loving you than i don't know what is," she went on while stroking molly's hair as if she were a cat.

_Yeah right, he tried to strangle me a few hours ago_.

"When you were in hospital, he only left the house to visit you. He even stopped his stupid investigations," she added. So Sherlock wasn't lying to Molly at all; he really did visit, everyday too.

She didn't know how to feel about that. Was she meant to be pleased? Surprised? Hurt? Shocked? Astounded? Impressed?

"Yeah, sure."

"When do you think John will be back?" Mary asked, her eyes fixed to some show that neither of them were actually watching, understanding Molly's unwillingness in the conversation she brought up

"Dunno, he ran off after Sherlock," and then, as if in cue , both men suddenly burst in; Sherlock's face stained in a fresh stream of blood sourced by his forehead while John seemed to be unscathed.

"What the – What happened John?" Mary shrieked at the bloody mess that was Sherlock's face.

"I don't know. i come to an abandoned orphanage, and see him fighting with some bloke," he called from the kitchen.

"the Killer attacked me with a Knife," Sherlock answered plainly. " It's not such a big deal," he responded coolly.

Molly approached him, her eyes carefully examining his face.

"What it is?" Sherlock asked.

"What do you mean it's not a big deal? It's a pretty big wound if you ask me," he only shrugged in response, and stopped wiping the blood that continued to flow from his forehead. Molly picked up some wads of tissues, and carelessly wiped his face.

"Ouch!" he flinched, only to get a smirk tossed at him.

"I thought it was no big deal Sherlock," she replied, and continued to clean the blood off of his face, only more gently.

Her sharp personality contrast was very intriguing to him. He could only deduce that her patience and more... gentler demeanour came from time and experience. He wondered what caused her to become more docile. Or what made her snap when she was volatile. He knew that he could be a possibility, but she always remained silent when he allegedly insulted her.

John arrived from the kitchen with a first aid kit and began to use his skills on his best friend, while Mary prepared the table for dinner. Molly found it strange how... domestic Mary is; she doesn't remember her friend cooking, well obviously not, but she didn't seem the type to actually mother people.

John forced Sherlock to eat with them and even suggested that John stay at their flat; which Sherlock responded to rather positively. Mary had no problems with that either, and Molly had no opinion whatsoever. She couldn't help but wonder how people didn't assume they were a homosexual couple.

Molly was far from hungry, but she didn't want to cause any worry, so she took a few, small, bites of her food, and heard Sherlock coughing.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"The food is too dry and tasteless," he answered without even thinking. Mary and John sighed while they continued eating.

"well, she did make it with your humour..." Molly muttered, and clamped her mouth shut as soon as she said that. What was she thinking? Saying something as silly as that; he wouldn't even find it funny.

But much to her surprise he did, he let himself smile and continued eating, while the other two gaped at his passive response. What they didn't know, was how Sherlock was having so much fun interacting with amnesiac Molly.

After dinner, Molly and John decided to go for a walk ( yes at eight in the night) which left Molly and Sherlock alone, well that is if you didn't count Toby. Whether John and Mary had planned this was a mystery, but Sherlock was too occupied with his own mind, his hands steeple under his chin, trying to put together the fragments of Molly Hooper's case.

"Sherlock, Sherlock," she called for him, only for her cat to respond. Acknowledging that he was busy, she waited a bit for him to stop... praying, she thought. Five minutes had passed, then to seven, then to ten, and she grew fed up. Mary and John weren't even back.

"Godamnit SHERLOCK!" she called on the top of her lungs and held on to his shoulders.

He was fighting off the ever-growing darkness that threatened his mind palace; darkness that he never knew existed. It was only because of the loud call that helped him escape from the place altogether. His eyes snapped open, to see Molly's doe eyes fix on his.

"What were you doing?" she asked frantically, concern clearly displayed in her eyes.

"Sorting out my mind palace,"

"Oh thank God, it thought you fainted or had some stroke or was having a seizure," she sighed in relief and sat next to him, not even bothered about their closeness.

Normally, Molly wouldn't even go ten feet near him, let alone be this close. But she probably would have called him like that especially after he sustained such a grave injury; she probably wasn't as different as he thought.

"Why did you awaken me from my mind palace Molly? What do you want?" he asked.

"What's the reichenbach fall?" she asked. His eyes showed a hint of surprise for a split second.

" It's when i faked my death," he answered curtly.

"oh for God's sake, elaborate Sherlock," she added, grabbing his hands so they won't glue together again; very eager to hear his story

"The reichenbach fall is when i had to fake my death to save my friends. A man, a criminal mastermind, called Moriarty, used me as a toy to relieve boredom, and he wanted me to jump to my death or three of my friends would be shot dead," he began.

"John," she stated, he nodded his head.

"Mary?" he shook his head.

"We hadn't met until much later," he explained, and let her carry on guessing.

"Me?" she asked, her eyes, suddenly looking more innocent than before. He shook his head again, only to see her face falter slightly.

"Does that upset you?" he asked, suddenly alarmed. He wished he'd think more before he'd talk, he was growing more and more concerned with his fantastic ability to upset the pathologist.

"No, it can't upset me because i don't know anything about it. But aren't we friends?" she asked, her innocence practically radiated from her.

"We are now... well before your..." he stopped. How was he meant to explain their dynamics when he didn't even understand it either. He always questioned why she was so loyal to him, despite the many times he would belittle her, or upset her, or manipulate her. It was such a one-sided relationship; but he never had to question it until now.

"so how were we like then?" she asked, so eager to learn more about her past.

"Back then, we were more like acquaintances rather than friends," he answered, not wanting to remind her of the many times he hurt her or publicly embarrassed her. The answer seemed to have satisfied her anyway.

"Well I'm glad,"

"About what?"

"That we're friends now. I don't know why, but I'm very happy," she smiled at him. A smile reminiscent to her old self; except her blush was missing, in fact it seemed to have transferred to him. She encouragingly squeezed his hand, that she didn't let go, and he continued to explain about the incident; her involvement of the case. How she helped John ease the pain, how John and Mary ended up marrying, his return and everybody's reactions, everyone's reactions to her being the mastermind to the plan.

It was a grim bedtime story narrated by her favourite voice. Despite the early time, her eyelids refused to comply with her, drooping at every moment. She snuggled next to the detective, rested her head on her shoulders while he was deep in explaining the situation. Only when he finished his story did he realise his friend was fast asleep, beside his shoulder. He smiled at the childlike expression she wore, she looked much more peaceful when she was sleeping; much more peaceful than the time he found in the morgue, bloody and bruised. He decided to keep her there, John or Mary could move her if they wanted to; he liked the warmth he felt when she was near him, and he wasn't planning to get rid of it.

**(i totally understand why people love writing Sherlolly fluff; it's just so... fluffy :3 anyway next chapter you can expect a more... different atmosphere let's say. And a few more characters will be introduced and i'll stop hinting before i give everything away. so what do you guys think about this chapter?)**


	6. the Red Ball

**Hai people who remember this story was ever published. I've been swamped with exams, and have been battling with other issues that just suddenly cropped up. Enough of me; let's get this show on the road ( I think that's how it's said) :)**

The shrill sound of her ringtone woke her from her hazy dreams; it was a man, called Greg Lestrade, on the other line.

"Hey, Molly," he greeted warmly.

"Uh, hi," she greeted.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Not too bad, thanks. And you?"

"Same here i guess," he chuckled awkwardly. "Listen, are you free today?"

"Well, yeah i suppose. Why?"

"Since you're up and able, the police force would like to interrogate you about that incident," he answered, his voice dropped a little when he said "that incident", as if it were something not be spoken of.

"Oh, okay. When exactly?" Molly asked

"At around ten-ish?" he suggested.

"Sure. See you then," she hung up and got ready for work.

Who was Greg Lestrade? She recognised that he worked in Scotland Yard, he wanted to interrogate her about the fight she doesn't remember very clearly, but he spoke to her rather nicely. Friendly, even called her Molly. She assumed that they worked together; especially since she worked as a pathologist.

She figured she may as well take the morning off; in fact her boss was insistent that she took the whole day off. Not that she did of course. Rather than wearing her usual work clothes, clothes that she doesn't mind being messed mind you, she wore a black floral dress that went down mid length, adorned with deep purple tights and wore her favourite leather ankle boots ( they were her favourite since they made her feel like such a badass by the audible footsteps). After leaving a note for Mary she left her flat, unnoticed.

Scotland Yard was radiating a rather oppressive aura compared to what Molly had expected; she wondered whether the atmosphere was always this... depressing.

the feeling of impending doom continued as she crept, slowly, through the halls; passing people passing her with curt smiles or worse, right... through her, as if she was never there in the first. As if she doesn't need to be acknowledged.

Maybe it was just her overreacting; yes, she was definitely overreacting.

Then again, who could hardly blame her? To be awoken by the police, wanting to interrogate about an assault that resulted in her amnesia; so of course she wouldn't remember? It's as if the suspect did this deliberately; to clear himself of his tracks.

"_You better not let me down either_," those words echoed her skull, left her feeling more nauseous than before.

Needless to say: Molly was scared.

She wondered why she couldn't just admit her amnesia openly. people would be kinder to her, whether she'd like it or not, but she wouldn't have to constantly spin up a new web of lies.

_Web._ That word sent shivers up her spine.

She thought of Mycroft, the ambiguous man who instructed her to act that way in the first place. Normally she wouldn't even comply with such absurd suggestions, but something about him felt so official, she felt it would be a huge mistake if she didn't listen to him.

Molly turned the corner into the hallway and followed the familiar voice she heard over the phone. But before she could say anything, and make her not-so-noticeable presence noticeable , she heard various voices booming over one another.

Molly was never an extroverted person, but because of that she picked up a habit of eavesdropping, whether it was a good or bad thing, even today this asset was something she had never lost.

"Wellington, the murderer was definitely Wellington," John called out triumphantly.

"You gave me a list of three possible suspects, yet there were four weapons found at the scene of the crime," Sherlock's deep baritone made her involuntarily blush.

"Okay... so?" Greg asked.

"So the fourth person had the gun! And the fourth person had shouted something to the victim that only the victim understood and the servant's didn't. And how else could that be possible if it wasn't in their native language? The person must have been able to speak a language that only the victim could have: Romanian! So when they heard the gunshot, all of the servants along with Wellington rushed to save their master, but the door to his bedroom were locked and he was asleep. All the loud callings woke the victim, startled he asks what is going on. Wellington probably shouted "come closer to the door, it's dangerous," and to check what was going on, he peeks through the lock, where the murderer Wellington coincidentally places the gun to unlock the door. The door is unlocked with the gunshot that also happened to lodge through the victim's eyeball and back, fatally killing him. The momentum caused him to fall backwards, and onto the skateboard that transported the body back to the bed and the servants, along with the murderer, entered to find the victim, become a victim."

After a few seconds of silence, Greg finally speaks up.

"Donovan, get the guy in here, we need to interrogate him," he finalised.

"Okay," a feminine voice sighed, as if she didn't want to complain.

This was when Molly decided she should enter; gingerly she knocked at the door.

"Oh Molly," Greg greeted peering at the clock then back to pathologist. It was thirty minutes later than she was meant to arrive but she could tell that he was pre-occupied with other things.

"It's alright, i can come back some other time if you'd like," she suggested.

"No, no, we can't let this matter slip away," he replied, but Molly felt that it would anyway. "Just sit around until we can figure something out," he suggested leaving the room with John and Sherlock following; leaving Molly alone.

Alone.

Well that was before Sherlock hastily grabbed her by the arm and practically whisked her away, completely unnoticed as she was when she came in

He dragged her out of the rooms in an awkward manner; his hand clutched to her elbow, ignored the strange glances thrown at him as he sauntered across the hallways.

"And you are taking me?" she began.

"To the investigation of course," he answered.

"What?"

"Do keep up Molly, John left to check up on Mary and has left me without a companion. You happened to be there, bored out of your wits, so i thought I'd do you a favour of letting you accompany me," he reasoned monotonously.

"Or substitute John in other words," she concluded blandly.

"Don't be silly," he cut back.

"So anyway, where are we going?" she asked.

"To the crime scene."

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The wind grew more and more rapid as they sauntered to the crime scene; the crime scene that was once a beautiful mansion the midst of silence and its overlooked surroundings. Sherlock was more or less correct, of course, sighed as they all searched for the man in question.

The vicious wind roared through Molly's let down hair, sent it flying in many different directions. Sherlock's coat also billowed in the wind too

(Though he looked much more sophisticated than she)

He glanced at his new companion who turned the other direction so the wind hit her face perfectly. She spun around on the heels of her boots, and turned back to the consulting detective.

"It's so windy and dismal in here, I think we might be in hell!" she joked, hugged herself to stop shivering.

"You're cold," he stated.

"It's no big deal,"

"Here," Sherlock removed his coat, and draped it around her shoulders.

"What?! But now you'll be cold," she protested; surprising him with her sudden concern.

"No I won't be, I'm more layered and insulated than you," he pointed out and pulled up the taping around the location for Molly to pass through.

"Wait, John's gone to Mary. What's wrong with Mary?" She asked, concern gripping her.

"She's pregnant," he sighed at her ignorance. But then again it wasn't her fault she couldn't remember anything, he just had to be patient.

"Really? but then I wouldn't know anything about it," she muttered whilst looking down, almost walked right into a forensic.

"Oh sorry," she instantly apologised, noticed how Sherlock instantly turned to her.

"Oh it's you," the man snarled. "Where's your other pet, then? Run off once he realised you're no use?" he insulted, though it angered Molly more than it did Sherlock.

"Okay, first of all (whatever your name is) I am not a pet, got it?" she remarked sarcastically.

"And second of all, you're definitely one to talk about not being of use," she huffed and stormed away with Sherlock following closely behind her.

Lestrade was closely by them, pursed a smile from growing on his lips. He knew that Molly's wrath was not be crossed, and so far, Anderson had only touched it. He followed them to tell them of the news.

"Sherlock," he called for him. "Listen, we found the guy at town, said he went to buy some cigarettes."

"Oh, so I guess the case is closed," Sherlock frowned.

"Well actually, we got a bit of a problem," Lestrade began.

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Henry Moore entered the morgue, to find himself completely alone. Not that he didn't mind, he just expected someone to be there, to watch him, the trainee, work his magic over dead bodies.

He chuckled at that thought; wondered why he became a pathologist of all things. Maybe because it was because of the pay, or because the patients can't out-sass you, or maybe it was because of her...

He turned back to go and double check his schedule, when the consulting detective sauntered in and carelessly collided with the trainee.

"Oh god, sorry," Henry apologised, only to get a curt nod thrown back at him

"Oh, hey Molls," he greeted his mentor as he saw her emerge from Sherlock's shadow.

"You again?" she joked, hearing a soft chuckle in response.

"How have you been?" he asked.

" "Molls"? I don't recall the two of you being so close as to nickname one another," Sherlock suddenly cut in the conversation.

"We're not," Molly frowned at Sherlock's sudden conjecture, certain that that wasn't his usual mannerism.

"Then why the friendly banter?" he asked as if he was genuinely curious.

"Because that's what people do," she answered, oddly reflecting a certain Madman's words; except she didn't shriek halfway through.

"What's going on, now?" Henry asked nonchalantly

"There's been a murder," Sherlock stated.

"Okay…?" he responded, unsure.

"And, you see, the person they'd like to interrogate refuses to speak English; he can only speak Romanian and there are no Romanian translators available. And I know you can speak bits of Romanian and I was hoping you can help…?" Molly asked in earnest.

"Sure, I'd be more than happy."

"Thank You!" she hugged the man and he warmly accepted; finding the material of Sherlock's coat very insulating.

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Henry was guided by the DI who was warm but very professional. After getting many apologies from various people who he was sure he'd never see again ( so he didn't bother to register their names) he was finally allowed in the interrogation room, after the officials had their turn , they decided that the "amateurs" should also give it a shot, ( apparently that being Molly, himself and Sherlock, kindly labelled by a woman called Sally).

He entered with Molly and Sherlock, the two of them stood, while Henry sat opposite one of the most repulsive men he'd ever had the… privilege to set his eyes on. Not that the man was lacking in appearance, far from it, he was rather good-looking for a middle aged man; it was just the aura he radiated through those repulsive grey eyes. A washed away grey, washed away like his soul.

"Bună ziua domnule Wellington, numele meu este Henry Moore, iar acest lucru este Sherlock Holmes și Molly Hooper," Henry greeted warmly. (_Hello mister Wellington, my name is Henry Moore, and this is Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper._)

"Ah, da, este o plăcere să te cunosc, detectiv, și că trădător," Wellington sneered. (_Ah yes, it's a pleasure to meet you, the detective, and that traitor_)

"trădător?," (_traitor_, Henry asked, suddenly alarmed with the connection Wellington and Molly could possibly have.)

"Oh, astfel încât să nu știi. bine că nu contează. Ce întrebări ai vrea să răspund?"(_Oh so you don't know. well that doesn't matter. what questions would you like me to answer?_)

Wellington laughed good-naturedly; probably to seem less suspicious by Sherlock, who was keeping a very sharp eye on him.

"What questions do you have for him?" Henry asked Sherlock, who handed him a sheet of questions in response.

"Unde erai când a avut loc crima?" (_Where were you when the murder took place?)_ Wellington rolled his eyes at the question he probably answered around a hundred times.

"Am răspuns la această nenumărate ori, și răspunsul meu nu a schimba un pic," _(I have answered this many times, and my answer has not changed a bit_)

"Spune-mi tinere, cât de mult ai face, pentru a salva prietena ta prețios?" (_Tell me young man, how much would you do, to save your precious girlfriend?_) Wellington spontaneously asked. Henry's eyes glowered in response, while Molly looked down in disbelief; surprised how she had understood every single word said.

"ce vrei sa spui?" (_What did you say?)_ Henry fumbled over his words.

"Adler," the man responded , which caught Sherlock's eye.

"What does he mean by that?" Sherlock asked.

"töten den Adler und alles wird gut" Wellington suddenly shifted from Romanian to German.

"unde este ea? ce-ai făcut?" (_Where is she? What have you done?)_ Henry asked, a sense of urgency enveloped in his jovial tone.

"Henry. What does he mean by that?" Sherlock insisted.

"Eagles: he was talking about their business logo being an eagle. They shot the baby eagle and the old one still remains," he lied convincingly; though Molly didn't buy it. The man was threatening him right under their noses, with words that she surprisingly understood.

"esti un baiat foarte convingătoare. asculta cuvintele mele și totul va fi bine. Acum, dacă mă scuzi, aș dori să plece.," (_ you are a very convincing boy. Listen to my words and all will be well. Now if you excuse me I would like to leave_) he faked tears, bordering a mental breakdown. And, as if on cue, Lestrade stormed in along with Donovan, and ushered the amateurs out of the interrogation room.

Molly observed Sherlock's apathetic face, then to a subtly bewildered Henry. If anyone else were to walk past, they wouldn't be able to detect his obvious alienation towards the man like she did; hell, she understood every single word being tossed about in that room. But there was something she didn't quite understand: just who is the eagle? And what did he mean about her being a traitor?

There was more to Wellington, Henry and herself than she ever knew… and she never felt as determined to find out as she did now.

**Dun dun duuuun. Lol no. sorry, this was so anti-climatic. But rest-assured, the eagle will eventually be revealed, I think it's pretty obvious anyway. But who do you guys think it is? What do you think of my OC Henry and Wellington? How was this chapter altogether? (Besides being the letdown it is, I'm sorry) anyway, I am now FREEE from exams! So updates will be much more frequent now, hooraaayyy! **


	7. the red ball- part 2

**AN: Hello again guys! I'm pretty surprised right now, because I hit 5000 views? How on Earth did that happen? I'm so flattered and happy at the same time, it means a lot to me ^_^ ( cyber-hugs to all) and this chapter is a bit of a mouthful. There were times when I wanted to leave some parts as a cliff-hanger, but I thought that would be rude, especially since you guys deserve some answers :P special thank you to 4May, who has been so nice in her reviews and to starkidindia: the two of you get all the hugs! **

_Traitor, what in God's name did he mean traitor? _

She felt stupid, for thinking about that only line out of the many ominous words spewed from that vile man; but she couldn't help it. She felt her whole identity be threatened from that word alone

_Traitor. _

She internally shook herself and decided to analyse the whole conversation. Henry's girlfriend is missing; Wellington seems to know what has happened to her. He wants him to kill someone she probably doesn't know. Sherlock probably knows, judging by his reaction. And for some reason, Henry didn't inform the discussion to anyone; so it was probably best if she were to talk about him.

"Why does Adler sound so familiar?" she muttered, only for Sherlock to hear.

"Oh, it means eagle in German. Of course," she finalised.

Sherlock's main thought was the unsuspected breakdown. It indicates that he either felt guilt, or was truly upset over the circumstances. Or he could have faked it altogether; yes, that seemed more likely. And why was Henry lying? And above all that… why is he so friendly to Molly?

_Stop. _

He shouldn't suddenly start thinking about other matters; not when a case is yet to be complete. But he did wonder, though, when he questioned their relationship, which Molly fervently denied, why he saw a glint of disappointment in Henry's red eyes. Speaking of, well thinking of, Henry; he was nowhere to be seen. He must have left after speaking to Lestrade. He turned to reach for Molly, and noticed she was gone too; along with his coat.

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She left just as unnoticed as she always is; well before the event that led to her to this current situation. She left Scotland Yard to look for the albino who fled almost instantly after the interrogation.

Traitor, why is she referred to as a traitor? Henry didn't seem to understand himself, so she assumed that he was never in cahoots with the businessman. How did she understand Romanian altogether?

Well the sooner she finds Henry, the more answers she will find. And maybe questions too.

She trudged through an alleyway and realised that she had ended up spending the whole day playing detective with Sherlock. The name brought a random twist in her gut, which only added to the enormous amount of anxiety bubbling down there anyway. She was so busy in thought she almost missed Henry, who was sitting haphazardly on the floor on the other end of the alleyway.

"Henry," she called out wistfully, unsure of what to say. His face was as white as a sheet, only circled with red around his wide eyes.

"Molly… I don't understand," he hiccupped and wiped his eye with a damp sleeve. She rested her hands in Sherlock's coat pocket, searching for tissues. But instead, she found a random piece of piece of paper, which seemed to have been addressed to her. She put it back, and sat beside him on the filthy ground.

"Neither do I, dear, explain to me everything that had happened," She soothed, squeezed his shoulder in encouragement.

"It happened six months ago, when Madeline was taken from me. Six months ago, she decided to go touring around Europe with a couple of her friends. And she was gone. The only piece of evidence I have that she was taken from me is this," he handed her a smart phone, and she watched a strangely haunting video of a ridiculously pretty woman crying as she was, presumably, forced to read aloud.

"Dear, Henry Moore. I-i-I'm so… sorry to inform you that we have taken one of your most precious possessions. And we're willing to return her… if you comply with us. W-we'll send you the missions we'd like you to complete. Sincerely the – Oh my God – the Moriarty… web. And if you think about reporting us to the police… then- oh no- consider this precious possession… d-dead. " after sessions of watching the woman sob and cry, Molly handed it back, more than shaken by the threat.

She recognised Madeline. But then again she also recognised Henry, Sherlock, John, Mary, Lestrade and even that amber eyed man.

"Oh God, Henry, how do you know that this is official?"

"I don't," he answered blankly, staring straight ahead of him.

"I have no idea about anything that is going on. Why have they picked me, rather than anyone else in the world? Why didn't I just go with her? Oh for god's sake!" he punched his thigh with painful contempt.

"Look, first of all, we have to consider whether this is official or not. You got to back and demand to Wellington that you get to know whether she's alive or…" she didn't finish the line.

"And once we figure out that she's alive… then…" she considered for a moment. What will Henry do, if everything is confirmed? Will he actually become the hit man for the "Moriarty web"? She hated that idea; it repulsed her. There was no way she would let Henry commit such wicked deeds.

"Then I'll do it," he concluded.

"You're not being serious. Henry, you will become their hit man, you will become a murderer if you comply with them," She warned.

"Don't become their toy and blindly believe everything that happens. Do you even know if Wellington works for them, or is just manipulating you to do his bidding? He's probably just blackmailing you. Think of all the possibilities. Henry, don't let your love for Madeline Blind you!" she suddenly shouted.

"Blind me? Then what else am I meant to do?"

"Let that become your strength. Don't let it become your weakness. Henry… please, listen to me," she pleaded; Henry was in a weak state of mind and she desperately needed to snap him out of it.

"Fine, I'll only listen to you if you come up with a good plan. Otherwise you can toss off," he got to his feet and sprinted away. Shocked by his sudden abrasive attitude, she headed back to Scotland Yard.

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Sebastian Moran took his time with the clients; especially since he became the new leader of the Moriarty, no wait Moran, Network. In fact, he paid such little attention the clients, he was certain that Jim would have killed him by now.

Jim Moriarty, the most cunning man mad he ever had the privilege to meet. Jim Moriarty, his Friend, mentor, companion. Could they have been anything more than that? Well there was always the possibility, but he would never know now; and that emptiness in his gut will never be replaced.

And it was all because of that Bitch: Molly Hooper, the only woman to have ever managed to get affection from Moriarty. But what did she do? Throw it away, overlooked, and fawned for the other boring man who's always too busy playing detectives to even bat an eyelash.

Turning away from his ever-growing paranoia, he observed the interrogation tape between Wellington Wilson and Henry Moore, rolled his eyes at every single word formed by the old man. He told him to be subtle, not to order people around, in an interrogation room no less; it was miraculous that his web got hold of the evidence before anyone else. Now how is his game going to go about since the wrong person has been tampered with?

Oh well. At least this "Henry Moore" managed to obtain Molly's affection. In fact, he was certain that he achieved this easy feat a very long time ago. So his plan can be saved; so they can still dance.

"Uh sir," an uneasy masculine voice called for him.

"What is it?" he knew it was the small man; practically every man was smaller than him.

"I have taken the girl. What would you like me to do with her?"

"Her organs. Remove every single organ in her body and have them delivered to me. Then you can do whatever with her remains," he deadpanned, his eyes still fixed on the tape.

"Your father is such an idiot may I add. Do tell him that if he keeps this up, he can join his son," Sebastian remarked; his attention never wavered from the screen even when a sadistic smile crept up on his bronze face.

"Sure," the other man shrugged, before leaving into the darkness. Everything was coming to plan. Soon Molly Hooper would come to suffer just like him.

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Molly felt naked without the insulation of Sherlock's coat draped around her shoulders like a cloak. Whatever; she did a good job at sullying It when she sat on the floor, and when it trailed past her feet.

She tried her best to hide a smirk when she observed his mortification at the rags that was once his coat.

"You can keep it. In fact, return it to me once it's cleaned," he remarked, which made both Greg and Molly laugh till their stomachs hurt.

"Where did Harry go?" he asked.

"Who's Harry?" she asked.

"Oh, I mean, Henry,"

"I dunno, left without a trace I guess," she tried to lie but her pitch jumped an octave higher towards the end of her sentence. Lying wasn't her best asset then. Sherlock only took that as nervousness for her growing affection towards the man.

"How long have you two known each other for?" he asked.

"Around two weeks, why?"

"So it takes you two weeks to quickly fall under someone's feet then?"

"God no! Not Henry… no," her face pulled like she licked a lemon.

"I was only trying to joke about,"

"Well don't."

Greg held his breath yet again; something that he was growing quite used to around Molly Hooper. First it was her round with Anderson, then Henry and now it's her belittling Sherlock. Whoever that man was, that kicked her head in, did a good job in his opinion. Now Molly was as fierce as a dragon and didn't allow anyone to push her over.

"So what are you guys planning on doing now?" she asked Greg.

"Well, we've got him arrested, even though that interrogation didn't help. We're gonna get an actual translator around tomorrow, and see what we can do about him,"

"Do you guys think that he's the actual killer?" she asked. There was no doubt in her eyes; not after knowing about the man's true nature. But they didn't know, so they would have even little knowledge.

"No, not anymore," Donovan's harsh tone abruptly shifted the warm atmosphere to a more serious one.

"There's been another murder and he couldn't have committed it since he was stuck here," she began. "Annie Usher, the victim's girlfriend, found dead at her father's grave."

Molly was thankful that all eyes for not on her, (not that it always was), otherwise they would have easily read the dread smeared across her face like a book.

"Well, I guess you'll have to be companionless Sherlock. I got to go," she said briskly and hurried out of the room before he could even object.

_Henry Moore, what have you done?_

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Returning to work the very next day (and not being able to find the boy the previous night, for god's sake) after the crazy turn of events felt out of place for her. But , despite how increasingly awkward it got, she had to be there; she had to see Henry, at least know that he hadn't done what she thought he done.

So far the day had been rather quite. There was no Sherlock in sight; and she had been expecting him so she could return the now clean coat. There was no Henry either; in fact there was no one there at all, and that's what she liked most about her working hours: human interaction. Hardly any bodies were tasked to her; not even the Annie Usher, so she decided to retire to her office until she had something better to do.

When she did enter; a strange sensation crawled on the back of her neck. She observed the room to find nothing unusual. So what was it then?

Then the smell hit her; the fragrant yet foreboding smell that made seas of nostalgia in her gut. White petals lay disarray on her desk; cleverly obscured an envelope just as white. She opened it and grew more confused by the contents: a picture of a woman layered in makeup, her black hair tied in a bun, with a caption "KIA" and nothing more.

She double checked the envelope; realised it was addressed to Henry Moore. Some stupid mistake they made, her surname began with an "H" and his with an "M"! Besides, he can't even have an office to himself yet; he's a trainee!

Once she realised the implications of the letter, she decided it would be best if she didn't deliver it to him (wherever he could be).

"Molly!" a deep baritone called from the hallway; caused her to flinch and drop the letter. Frantically she picked it up and hid it in her bag; the safest place she knew it could be kept.

"Sherlock, your coat's here," she started, and found a small person behind him; that exact same woman in the photograph.

"Oh, who's this?" she tried to seem conversational, but her tone caught to her and made her seem more upset than friendly.

"Molly, this is Irene Adler, Irene this is Molly Hooper," he made the introduction.

"Pleasure to meet you, Miss Molly Hooper," she purred at her.

"Likewise," Molly answered.

Then it made sense.

KIA. Kill Irene Adler.

"Molly we need you to give us the Body of Annie Usher…" he went deep into explanation while Molly was too busy thinking about the danger Irene Adler, Henry Moore and Madeline were in.

So whoever this woman was, the Moriarty web wants her dead. She must have done something to get herself into that sort of problem. And Henry, if she doesn't tell him about the new target then Madeline would be dead. But if she does tell him, then she'll be encouraging him to kill a person they haven't even met. Either way, the problem has now become her responsibility. How is she going to turn this around?

"Molly, are you listening to me?" A voice snapped her thoughts; she looked up Sherlock's puzzled expression.

"Sorry, I was thinking of something else. What do you need?" she asked.

"The body of Annie Usher."

"Well she wasn't given to me, but let's see what I can do," she answered, speeding ahead of the two so they could avoid her look of distate.

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The shrill sound of Austin Carlile screaming his songs snapped Henry out of his daydreams. The caller ID was unknown.

He had done everything Molly had offered, find proof that Maddie was alive in the first place. Reluctantly, he picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hello, there Mister Henry Moore. Now, I've heard you wanted to speak to me?" an unknown deep voice asked.

"Yes, I need to know that what I've been told is legit. That I will have Madeline back if I do this,"

"Proof? Very well, return to your usual work place, I'm sure you'll find a rather nice… surprise," the ambiguous voice sniggered.

"By the way Mister Henry Moore, who do you choose? Your precious Madeline or Miss Molly Hooper?" the voice was full of contempt.

"Molly? What the hell are you talking about? And what is my mission? Who the fuck is this eagle?" Henry could no longer hide his infuriation.

Much to his surprise, the voice belted out an unattractive cackle.

"Oh Mister Henry Moore, you'd definitely make good use for us. Irene Adler is the eagle. Kill Irene Adler and all will be well," the voice concluded and hung up the phone; left Henry more confused than before.

He wasn't planning on working; he didn't want to face Molly after he was so involuntarily ill-mannered to her. But he had to now; he had to see whatever proof he had of Madeline's life.

It was an eyeball: Madeline's eyeball that happened to be the evidence he needed to know that she really was alive and taken hostage.

For fucks sake, why Madeline? Why couldn't it have been anyone else that was able to look after themselves that could have been able to fight those bastards off? Sherlock sensed his anger, along with the drop dead gorgeous assistant of his.

"Harry, what are you doing?" he asked, looking away from his cultures and to the trainee.

"Henry. And nothing special," he spat and took a look at the woman beside him.

"Who's this?" He asked, referring to the woman.

"Irene Adler, pleasure to meet you Henry," she introduced herself, took her hand out.

"Thank you, Irene Adler…" he came to a realisation.

He had to kill this woman?!

What the hell was the web smoking? She's harmless! There's no possible reason for them to actually get rid of her!

He turned back to his eyeball, Madeline's crystal blue eye, now rested on his hands.

"What's a woman such as yourself doing in such a morbid… place?" he asked, trying to sound conversational; but he sounded rather spiteful instead.

"With my… friend: Sherlock," she joked, and rested her head on his arm; to which he responded with a glare.

"He likes spending time here. I think it's because of that cute little pathologist," she replied with a little trace of hatred entwined in her juicy voice. Sherlock hardly responded to that, rolled his eyes through the lens of the microscope.

"Oh I'm flattered," he joked, knowing full well that it Molly she was referring to.

So that was it? It was this woman he had to kill? Could he do it though? Will it work out? Will Maddie be back and safe in his arms? Will he be safe after this?

Well if he never tried he's never know; and there's no backing out now.

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"So what exactly are you going to do with your situation? You shouldn't even be allowed out in the public," Sherlock deadpanned to Irene.

"Honestly… I haven't the faintest idea, suddenly all sorts of hit men have been targeting me," she sighed.

"So you come to me thinking that I can help you," his voice leaked heaps of superiority.

"Yes," she admitted without thinking. "I can't die now Sherlock, I just can't."

"I know," he turned to take a good look at the woman, the woman. Despite her fierce demeanour she was more vulnerable than anyone he'd ever met, and now she needed his help more than anything. He only wondered whether taking her out to the streets in broad daylight would be of any help.

Well it would be of help. If anyone was tracking her down like she claimed, then now would be the perfect time to shoot her, in the heap of crowded people it would be impossible for them to be detected.

Well it would have been impossible if Sherlock Holmes wasn't blended in with them.

And it was just as he suspected, a red laser pointed squarely on her forehead, ready to shoot her dead.

"Irene!" he suddenly barked and pulled her into him, far away from the mystery sniper. She landed head first into his chest.

"What the bloody hell was that about?" she asked. He looked around, realised there really was no laser pin-pointed to her head. There was no person in sight either. What just happened? He couldn't have lost it, not him.

"Never mind," he waved it off, to full of pride to accept his mistake.

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The vicious wind was practically slapping his face; as if it was telling him to snap out of this stupidity. Well it was stupid; having your girlfriend taken hostage so you can run around and do errands for one of the biggest criminal network in the world.

But there's no backing down now. The rifle, supplied to him by the network, was placed neatly through the bricks which surrounded the rooftop of St Bart's.

It was a stupid place to kill someone, a place so obvious and in broad daylight. But the faster this was done, the faster he can have his Maddie.

_This is it. _

His grip tightens on the trigger, focuses on Irene through the lens. He watched Sherlock, who has already noticed the laser pointed right at her head. Before Sherlock could even pull the woman closer to him, Henry was ready to pull the trigger.

"Henry, Don't!" Molly practically materialised out of thin air, threw the rifle down the roof and pulled Henry down to the ground, close to her embrace.

"Molly…i…" he began, totally speechless by her impeccable timing. Truth be told; he didn't really think he could have done it. He would have backed down anyway; but now he could blame her for it.

"I'm so sorry about yesterday," he tried to sound calm but his voice caught. Realising that he is completely safe in Molly's arms, he gave way, rested his head on hers and warmly embraced her back.

"It's alright, it's alright," she soothed him like a child.

"We'll figure something out Henry, I promise. But I can't let you do this, I don't know why either, but I can't let you especially do this."

"This is the only lead I have on her, Molly, I can't lose her."

"So you'd become their assassin? So they can throw you away when needs be? Killing this woman has nothing to do with their actual goal, they're just playing games with you and you can play games on them too. Call them and tell them you'll comply but on a later date,"

"And what will I do then?"

"I got a plan, and it can definitely pull through if you listen to me. But it will take a long time," she pleaded, panted.

"But until then, go and take a holiday. Take a few days off, clear your head up. We'll find your girlfriend, but only on our terms, and once we do we will make them pay, do you understand me?"

After a few minutes of silence, after her words registered fully into his head, and with consideration; he nodded.

"Okay."

"Okay," she finalised.

The two of them shook hands to their new alliance, and swiftly departed the rooftop and headed to the morgue.

_Sebastian Moran prepare for hell_.

** There wasn't a lot of Sherlock in this sadly, and Irene is a random character, but she'll have a huge purpose later; I promise. And so will John, and so will Mary. Next chapter I promise there will be more Sherlock and John working on their case, along with Sebastian and his evil-ness that hasn't fully been explored yet. **

**I was very, very, very tempted to stop at the "Henry Moore what have you done" but that would have been very sadistic seeing that he didn't do anything :P and Sebastian better prepare for hell! yeah I'm gonna shut up now. hope you guys liked it! **


	8. The Red Ball - Part 3

**AN: hi all of you lovely people :D seriously; I'm at a loss of words to describe how nice you guys have been to be, I especially needed it, so thank you! Well, this chapter should do wonders in terms of soothing your curiosity; so enjoy!**

"Sir," the man called his boss, who was fixed on a surveillance tape that he must have retrieved from one of his workers.

"What is it now?" Sebastian snapped, turned and took a good look at the small man for the first time. He was small, very small; smaller than his brother. He looked demonic though; just like his father; except he had a much more ominous aura, no, a much more psychotic aura.

"Well, I did what you wanted," he replied.

"Really? I was just being sarcastic, thank you anyway," he complimented his client for once.

"Well I'll be going..." he was cut off.

"No, take a seat; I'd like to have a word with you," Sebastian pulled a spare chair next to him, patted the seat to indicate the man to sit.

"O-okay…" the man gingerly placed himself next to his boss; stared ahead to a flat screen television.

"That is… My father's interrogation!" he exclaimed.

"Yes Mister Wilson. Your father had created quite a hole in my plan, but luckily it wasn't as grave as I thought it would have been," he muttered, he didn't need to be so loud; after all it was only the two of them in the fissure of a safe house. A safe house he infiltrated years ago when he was in the army.

"Plan?"

"Yes, I have a rather good plan, I'm sure you'd like to hear about it," he said, poured the man an unknown beverage. "Don't worry, it's safe, I'm having some too," he proved it by taking a large gulp of the thing.

"See that man there?" he pointed at the albino. "He's been wrongfully blackmailed by your sod of a father. But luckily, it will come to good use, because see that woman over there?" he pointed at the petite brunette.

"She cares for him, and she's who I'm after," he guffawed. "Slowly and surely, she's going to pay for all the things she's done, slowly she's going to lose each and every single person that she's cared for," he smiled to himself, took another swig of the drink.

"But she seems to care more for that other man with the curly hair, the way she blushes, it's more… like she's romantically interested in him," Mister Wilson speculated.

"i am aware of that," he glared.

"But she and the albino boy share a history together. They went to the same orphanage. Her, him and some other people; they were friends. So imagine what kind of heartache it would cause her, for her childhood friend to suddenly hate her. Besides he could help me get rid of some... unwanted items"

Mister Wilson watched Sebastian gloat about his plans to someone (that someone being him unfortunately).

"Why Irene Adler. Why do you want to kill her so much?" Wilson had finally plucked the courage to ask.

"Oh, I'm sorry Mister Wilson I was only meaning to explain to you about my plan, not why," he dismissed.

He couldn't exactly explain to someone, who thought that he was a mind-blowing genius, that he simply wanted her dead just for kicks.

Well, it wasn't just for kicks: it was for revenge. Revenge for betraying his boss and stupidly falling in love with that other man; a talent all the women seemed to have.

He didn't share the same burning hatred for Irene Adler as he did for Molly Hooper, oh hell no. Irene Adler was just a useless distraction, a petty client, who couldn't even look after herself.

Therefore, killing her on the spot would have its advantages. It wouldn't be fun watching her mortified expression while he pulled out her heart strings. Definitely not.

But Molly was so positively human, so repulsively human; what was so special about someone so… boring?

"Anyhow Mister Wilson, it was fun talking to you. I'll see you at the ball," he made it very clear that Wilson should leave, pointed at the door with his hand that held yet another glass filled with whatever it was.

"Indeed, I'll see you then," Wilson sneered forebodingly.

It was going to be the ninety-ninth anniversary of the Wilson company, and it was going to be the first one where Sebastian Moran had complete control over.

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"He could have hired someone to have killed her," John offered, staring at the grave stone in which Annie Usher's lifeless body was found.

"He could have, but the motive would have been very pointless," Lestrade countered, stared at Sherlock who was deep in thought.

"Something is very… off about this whole investigation," he thought aloud. "We are missing something very obvious, incredibly obvious."

Obvious enough for even Sherlock Holmes to overlook.

"So what we can deduce so far is that the culprit for this murder has to be a medical professional, seeing how they managed to cut through the body with such ease," he thought to himself. But that was all he was able to think about the case.

And it was all because of the pathologist that the body was assigned to; he wouldn't allow Sherlock to observe the body himself and that report was beyond rubbish. If only someone up to standard, let's say Molly Hooper, were to have looked at the body, then there would have been something useful in the report altogether.

Wellington approached the three of them, his bloodshot eyes pierced through Sherlock's blue ones.

"Sh-Sherlock Holmes!" he pointed at the consulting detective in delight.

"Sorry about that, he's a fan of your blog doctor Watson," the translator complimented for him.

"Oh… well that's alright," John answered.

"Do you have any questions for him?" the translator asked.

"Yes, we have one. Are there any enemies that you think would have wanted to do this to your son and his fiancé?" Sherlock asked. The translator translated the words, and Sherlock carefully deduced the range of facial expressions that crossed through his face; they were quite a lot.

First it was curiosity, and then thought, then smugness, then (what surprised Sherlock the most) delight.

After whispering a few words to the translator, she spoke the long awaited words.

"Well, there are a lot of rivals and enemies since he was going to take over a massive business. I have no idea who it could be, but a man as intelligent as yourself could probably help me if I set the suspects in a room," she answered. "I'm hosting a ball in a week, and I'm sure the murderer will also make an appearance."

"It's very probable the murderer will make an appearance and it's very likely that they are after you now," Sherlock deadpanned.

"What, what do you mean by that?" Lestrade asked.

"This person, the culprit; they are after the Wilson family. First it was William Wilson, then Annie Usher (soon to be Wilson) and now they are after you: Wellington Wilson. Lestrade I'd get a lot of security on the mansion and on the day of the ball. John and I will go incognito."

"Then will you need invitations?" the translator asked to which Sherlock nodded. Without the need of consultation Wellington pulled out a notepad from his pocket and scribbled a few things in legible writing.

He handed it to Sherlock and then whispered back to the translator.

"There's no need to do that Wellington; we all know you can speak English," Sherlock deduced.

"Ah, Very well," he answered, his words slightly accented. "Thank you very much for this. Means…lots."

Sherlock peered down to notice it was an invitation to the ball.

"One person is one ticket."

"Then I'll need another ticket," John piped up.

"Oh no, one person and one date," he answered vaguely, most likely because he couldn't explain very well.

"No… I'm married," John didn't even conceal his chagrin at this allegation; surely he should be used to it.

"Congratulations!" Wellington put one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and the other on John's, beaming at the two.

Greg met John's glare which indicated that he should probably stop sniggering. The translator then explained properly what John meant by that, to which he blushed and started wavering around.

"Sorry, sorry! I didn't mean…"

"It's alright, just hand me an invitation," John sighed, looked at Sherlock's usual apathetic face.

"Thank you so much. So… happy," the man thanked them for the umpteenth time before leaving with the DI and the translator.

"You do realise that you need to find a person to go with you to this ball, or you can't be invited," John pointed out.

"Yes I am aware. And I know who I'm taking."

"Really? It's Molly isn't it?" Sherlock froze.

"What do you mean Molly?" he asked.

"Well the two of you are really close now. And plus she's great to be around, she's hilarious when she wants to be and- wait you're not inviting Molly?" John asked.

"No, I wasn't planning to. She has too much on her mind right now and that will only cause trouble."

"Trouble? Since when did you care about other people? Sherlock Holmes, why on earth are you avoiding her?"

"I'm not avoiding her," he pouted; surprised with John's disbelief.

"Really? Then who are you taking then?" John asked; certain that Sherlock wouldn't take anyone else.

"Irene Adler." The consulting detective hurried away, unaware that he left John gaping in the distance.

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Molly sighed at all the work she suddenly had to do. The body of Annie Usher was finally delivered to her (Apparently after Sherlock had complained that the report was not good enough) and then there was Irene Adler, who Sherlock left in the care of Henry and herself. So they could baby sit her.

She wondered how that happened in the first place; the woman didn't even seem pleased to be stuck in a morgue herself! Then she remembered: it was after Sherlock bribed them with money.

_"One hundred Pounds," he offered. _

_"Each?" Molly piped up, who initially refused altogether. _

_"Fine, each," he finalised. _

_"Great," Henry concluded. _

Oh for god's sake, Sherlock Holmes you manipulative, brilliant bastard! She peered at Irene, slumped at a desk; probably asleep, then to Henry (who has significantly calmed down) looking away from both women and stared out at the rooftop.

To think that, two hours ago, Henry would have shot the seemingly innocent, Irene dead in order for Madeline to be safe. And now, according to Molly's plan; they had to protect her.

Great, wonderful, fantastic; not only have they become her baby-sitter, they've also become her bodyguards; Protecting her from all sorts of hit men that want her dead for no special reason.

The two of them just had to wait for the right time, the right moment when they could expose the network to the hands of the public. This wouldn't be an easy feat though; it would require a lot of manipulation and handiwork. Molly was never known to be an excellent liar, even after all those weeks she still hadn't quite mastered it. But she is good when it comes to leading, much to everyone's surprise. Planning, prepping, advising; she was good with those assets.

After finishing off with the body, the three of them left and were parting their ways. That is until a bullet squarely missed Irene's head.

The sound of a window shattering was barely audible; concealed by the loud ringing of gunfire.

The hit man was near.

Molly and Henry instantly whip back, dragged Irene away as the three of them ran carelessly, only to be followed by more gunshots that always seemed to be too slow for them.

The laughter and general chatter from the public shifted to screams as blood and other broken objects stain the bleak concrete. This hit man had clearly lost it and wanted her dead.

Molly reached out to Henry first but Irene clung to her wrist like a vice; her face grey with shock and the rubble from other buildings.

"Sherlock, where's Sherlock?" she asked frantically.

"That doesn't matter now; we need to get out of here!" Molly reminded her, as the three of them made a bee line to the underground station. Henry stops short, realised that Irene was having a hard time running around with those heels.

"Here, take this," he took off his trainers and handed them to Irene; who didn't refuse. She'd have to be out of her mind if she refused; she was being hunted down. Confusingly; the further they ran, the louder the gun shots became.

"You guys, get her out of here! I'll meet you guys a bit later," Irene barked and hurried away without giving them time to blink.

She's yanked backwards, lost her grip and found herself staring at red eyes. Henry looked down at her, his face twisted into a frown.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? Now is not the time!" he shouted.

"Can't you hear it, the bullets are getting louder and louder, we're close to the shooter. We can find out who it is!"

"No, you need to get yourself out of here and someplace safe!" he barked over the loud chatter. It took for a bullet to hit a wall for them to look away.

She complied but didn't agree, hated how they were running around like headless chickens. The sound of a train approaching nearly made her cry in relief.

They were about a foot away from the entrance when a few more bullets were blown that squarely missed them ( hopefully not because of other passer by's). Irene disguised herself with Henry's shoes and Molly's jacket; they pulled down her hair and wiped off her makeup.

Thankfully they were one of the few passengers of that particular carriage; other civilians too petrified to come on board. Henry ushered her down to take a seat, while Molly's gaze was fixed out of the window.

"Who the fuck could that have been?" Henry finally belted out and broke the silence

"Henry Moore, watch your tongue," Molly retorted.

"Sorry, I was too busy wondering who the hell was trying to kill us to bother over my potty mouth?!"

"He's got a point," Irene suddenly entered in the conversation.

"You can be quiet, because I'm sure as hell that you're responsible for this," He steamed.

"My fault? You could have just run off while you had the chance, but instead you decided to sweep me off my feet and rescue me as if you're superman. Oh, I see; you need me,"

Molly's attention diverted from the window to the woman herself.

"The two of you saved me because you need me," she sneered.

"need you for what? What could you possibly have that others don't and desperately want?"

"Attention. And not from anyone; from the new consulting criminal."

"attention, more like wanted dead," he scoffed.

"Okay, that is enough from the both of you," Molly called out, her tone very assertive. "Do any of you even know where we're going right now?"

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John returned to Molly's flat after his talk with Sherlock. He was more than ferocious; after Sherlock returned from the dead he promised that he wouldn't lie to him anymore, hell, he told John everything, even the not so death of Irene Adler.

But then there's Molly Hooper and her retrograde amnesia which Sherlock knew but was not going to tell; that's right, John was not an idiot. His profession gave him the ability to do many things; and as a worried friend, he decided to check her files and came across the new discovery. Well, it definitely wasn't new for Molly or Sherlock, but he only found out yesterday!

But that meant that Sherlock wasn't actually lying when he said that he didn't want to trouble her. It did nothing but confirm John's inner thoughts about their ever growing relationship. He smiled at the thought; Sherlock falling for Molly. If someone were to have told him that three years ago, he probably would have revolted at that idea altogether. Now, though, his cheeks would probably glow the slightest shade of pink while he'd pretend to ignore the accusation.

Why on earth was she pretending to be fine when she wasn't? Did it have to do with the lab fight?

He picked up the letters laying on the floor, scanned through them and threw them on the table.

But there was one that particularly piqued his interest; it was a clad white envelope with pink shining underneath; pink like the invitation he received from Wellington. He looked around to see if anyone was home; and much to relief, no one was.

Eagerly and carefully he pulled the letter closer, ready to open and to look at the contents.

"What are you doing?" Molly's friendly, hushed tone caused him ( an ex-military doctor) to flinch.

"Nothing, I was double checking the envelope," he lied, much more convincingly than she ever could. "Thought I saw Mary not Molly,"

"Oh," she takes her hand out as he gives the letter to her. Just before he left to the room he turned back.

"Listen, Molly, are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine thanks. And you?"

"No I don't mean it as a conversation starter. Are you really alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine…why?"

"Nah, no reason. But if you want something, you can always come to me. You know what right?" he asked.

"I know, thank you John, I really appreciate it," she hugged him and left to her room, clutched on to the letter tightly.

She flopped on her bed; her legs ached from all the running. After that train ride (which took them to the other side of town) they returned home, carefully and unnoticed as always, and dropped the distraught Irene back to Baker Street; she did nothing but bicker with Henry.

She opened the letter and read the contents.

It was an invitation to "the Red Ball" AKA "a celebration for the 99th anniversary of Wilson Global! Make sure you bring a date!" she chuckled at the silliness of her random invitation. She turned the card around and found a rather different atmosphere formed by the words written in red marker (well she hoped it was a red marker)

It was bright, and bold, and was somewhat familiar too.

**_"Can't wait to see you dance"_**

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The memory of nearly strangling her to death still remained fresh in his mind. It was the day when he was called in by his boss to do a certain job; to help him with the great game.

_He was stuck, left alone in the living room of a flat. An organised mess were the only words he was able to use to describe it. The books were stacked up the shelves without any order, but if he were to ask the owner if he could probably borrow one of those novels, let's say Jane Eyre, they would have been able to retrieve itl with the time span of a blink. _

_Besides the hissing of the cat, that cat which absolutely hated the man, and the ticking of a few clocks set around the rooms; the rest was silent. It's been well over forty minutes since Jim had invited him over to an empty house that most probably didn't even belong to him. _

_That's when he heard it. The sound of light footsteps, coming closer and closer ; and it wasn't to any of the other neighbouring flats, but the one he happened to have himself stuck in. Thinking fast, he camouflaged himself with the rest of the darkness ( it happened to have been rather late at night) and prepared to launch himself at whoever it was ( Jim did enjoy their sessions of play-fighting) _

_But instead, he saw the silhouette of a small woman, a childlike frame really. Even her voice, calling out to check whether anyone was hoe, sounded childlike. Sounded naive, innocent; he hated it._

_"Hello? Anyone there?" that repulsive voice called out. _

_he lunged straight at the girl, wrapped his fingers around her throat. _

_Stunned by the sudden attack, the girl staggered backwards only to land in the muscular arms of the man. The sound of muffled chokes made it into the list of other audible things, until she grabbed an umbrella from the rack and poked the object right at his face. _

_"You little," he didn't finish the sentence, too absorbed with his fight ( that spurred for no reason) he grabbed her by the arm and forced her into his arms yet again, another attempt to strangle her to death. _

_She used her elbow to jab at his stomach, one, twice, another three times; but the minor force created wasn't enough for him to budge. Once the restriction of oxygen became too much for her fragile body to cope, she gave up; her body limp in his arms. _

_The door slammed open with an un-amused Jim, glaring at Sebastian as if he'd committed the most heinous crime ( oh the irony) _

_"Sebastian, DROP HER!" he suddenly shrieked, and Sebastian complied, didn't expect for the girl to fall flat on her face. _

_"Molly, are you okay?" Jim asked as he helped her get back on her feet; concern filled to the brim. _

_After sessions of coughing and wheezing, she finally answered: "who the hell is he?"_

_"An ally. You need to leave for a while, I'll call you when it's safe to come back," he ordered her much more warmly than he did with Sebastian. _

_ "See you bastards later," she retorted through a hoarse voice_

Unable to sleep, because of the stupid memories ,that always resurfaced his head during the night; he turned to the dartboard that hung precariously on a wall in his bedroom between tall bookcases.

Despite its vibrant pattern it was invisible in the darkness, but that wasn't a problem for Sebastian, he'd always hit the bull's-eye.

Tired of using darts and blades, he pulled out his hand gun, pulled the trigger.

BANG!

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BANG!

A strange clanging sourced from Molly's window shattered her sleep; she shot upright. cautiously she crept to her window, pulled the curtains out of her way, and peered out. It was Henry, throwing rocks at her window.

_What happened to using a mobile phone? _

"What the hell? What happened to your phone?" she whispered.

"What? I can't hear you," he called normally, probably woke the whole neighbourhood at that too.

"shhh," she dashed down to the entrance of her flat, a thin coat covered her PJ's.

"What is it?" she murmured.

"Here," he showed her a pink card, the same invitation she got too; but there was a slight difference.

**_" 21:35,Wilson basement, we have a lot to discuss "_**

"They have plans made out for me," he stated. "But i got one too."

**Do you know who sucks? Me. I said we'll have a lot of Sherlock this chapter, but my muse doesn't want that yet, for some reason. But, instead we got a bit more of John and maybe some more plot? Yeah I'm really sorry about that o.o **

**So what do you think of this chapter? **


	9. the red ball- part 4

**Hai guys and, wow, thank you so much for reviewing and reading in general! I'm in shock; 26 reviews? 7k views? It really means a lot to me, and I thank you all for reading this story that just randomly came to my head one night and I decided I may as well try and write it. So yes, I think you guys are beginning to understand why I am so fascinated by the fact that you are intrigued by this storyline. Oh well; have fun reading! **

Greg Lestrade advanced through most parts of the manor, yet there was nothing incriminating like Sherlock assumed there would be. There was no other place remaining to investigate since he and his small team had examined most parts of the Victorian styled manor; but he found it strange how such a huge place could be so limited.

Then the idea hit him. It was a strange idea that came purely from thin air, yet he still instructed his colleagues to do as he said. They complied, of course, and he was in even more shock when he found out that he was right: there were, indeed, secret pathways in the manor.

"Well, he's definitely spending his money right!" he chuckled in astonishment, along with the rest of the workers.

"C'mon let's get in." the four of them entered the narrow, dimly lit hall; hardly anything special in sight.

The chipped walls were adorned with portraits of questionable meaning. They mainly consisted of dead, mutilated bodies; if not some aspects of death hung around the portraits like a bad omen. There was one picture that stood out of the rest to him.

It was in landscape position, acrylic paint layered together that strangely formed a decipherable image. The artist must have spent a long time working on it too, because the details were very accurate. The details of the dead woman faced down at her father grave in a puddle of blood, was very detailed. The lifeless face of Annie Usher, much too detailed to been made from pure imagination.

Soft sounds of footsteps were audible from the other end of the hall.

"Who's there?" one of the workers called while Lestrade snapped the pictures on his phone.

"It's the other way around actually. Who's there?" a feminine voice purred.

Out emerged a small woman, barely five foot, who wore a delicate swathe of red silk; concealed with a red velvet clock that trailed past her feet.

"Ah, hello. We're the security," another officer piped up.

"Liar, don't you mean trespasser?" she sneered, swept her long platinum blonde hair to one side.

"Listen we can explain…"

"Explain what? That you're a traitor? To think if I weren't here, you would've killed this poor man," she pointed at Lestrade; who was gobsmacked with her words.

"We're only following the boss," one tried to reason.

"Which boss are you talking about, sweetie? Him or that grim reaper?" she pulled out a butcher's knife from her cloak.

"Sorry boys, but it's time I get back to my fitness regime," she apologised, as she plunged the weapon into the throat of one of the police officers.

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The grand anniversary celebration for Wilson Company used to be held after every ten years of its birth; which only ever consisted of the people that had helped the company blossom to life. After its seventy years of running, and the prestigious Wellington Wilson taking over his father, these events became more much frequent until it became held annually with no particular significance, and it eventually became branded as "The Red Ball" for its particular colour scheme.

The event was held by Wellington himself, the venue being his usual manner and not the mansion that had recently become a crime scene, as they celebrated the ninety-ninth year of the prosperous company (not that anyone actually cared to remember)

However the title "Red ball" was held in questioned: as the colour scheme was much more vibrant; the guests along with the decorations were at fault for that. The lights in each room were especially treated, each room designed in different colours: ranging from red, blue, green, yellow, purple, white and (oddly) black. The members of the troupe, that played melodic and elegant tunes, were embellished in black and white tones, the floral ornaments were arranged with flowers of only the brightest shades; even the champagne flutes and the decanter were to tinted to the colours according the rooms they were situated in.

The usual guests made their appearance, along with many other guests. This was the first time ever the ball included so many visitors. Sherlock attended in a suit of black ( the most colourful he could get) with a navy blue shirt and a tie slightly brighter than the shade. Mister Wellington personally welcomed the consulting detective and pinned a yellow rose to his lapel (much to his chagrin), but oh well, it worked well with their plan.

Irene accompanied him, her hair styled in its usual bun; gloriously adorned in a black silk dress, embroidered with silver beadings.

The first thirty minutes she had spent, so far, was flat and tedious; but it was her fault that she decided to watch events unfold rather than participate. She sat on a red leather chair and did exactly what Sherlock had asked her to do: see and observe. A particular flock of womencaught her attention; as they swooned and gossiped over the most trivial things possible.

"Hey, what are you doing sulking around like that? That's Sherlock's job," John appeared, dressed more formally than she had ever seen in her life.

"Oh MY GOD! It's Sherlock Holmes!" their attentions diverted to the women.

"Only he can come to a celebration with such little effort and still look so devastatingly handsome! Oh his eyes radiate such a sombre and sullen aura, no wonder people have such a strange attraction to him," they gossiped rather loudly. The two of them glanced at Sherlock (who definitely heard the swooning but chose to ignore it) then back at each other; dissolved to sniggers.

"What's so funny?" Mary asked; she wore a silk emerald dress edged in whites and blacks.

"Ah, don't worry," John sighed to cool down from the laughter. "So how's everything going?" he asked Irene.

"Rather well I'd say. Sherlock is keeping that man occupied, while that detective has gone snooping around the place, while i keep myself far away from Mycroft," she scurried off into the balcony, left John and Mary.

"You look stunning," he complimented Mary, kissed her on the cheek.

"You've said that to me like a thousand times now," she giggled.

"Well it's true."

Sherlock grew more and more impatient as he spent his insufferable time with the bumbling old man. Listening to him constantly rave about his pride that is the business, made Sherlock want to grab a sharp instrument and pierce his eardrums with it.

"Excuse me, i need the restroom," Wellington excused himself and blended in with the rainbow of a crowd.

Thank god he's gone. The minute John would make an appearance would be the minute Sherlock walks away and carries out the investigation his own way. He hated how Lestrade was the one who was able to investigate; he wouldn't even be able to find anything out anyway! But then again, Wellington was fonder of Sherlock than anyone else (Which didn't even make sense for Sherlock himself.).

"Hey Sherlock," he heard someone greet, turned around and found... whatever his name was smiling at him.

"Herman."

"Henry."

"Right." The silence became rather awkward as Sherlock was deducing his sudden appearance.

"Is Molly here?" he asked the albino.

"Yes, i invited her," he lied; but Sherlock was too deep in thought to catch him out.

"Are the two of you... romantically involved?" he dared himself to ask, only to have Henry glare at him.

"No, no we're not," he answered.

"Well you rather obliviously share feelings for her, do you not?"

"No, i do not. Can't people of the opposite gender just be friends?" he knew Sherlock was growing jealous and he enjoyed seeing the man squirm, but he couldn't withstand accusations like that.

"Just ask her out already," he advised him, Sherlock blinked twice at the statement.

"You really don't share any..."

"No. I don't play on that team," he lied, winked at Sherlock (whose eyes grew wide at the underlying message).

"I'm joking," Henry chuckled. "I'll see you around," he finalised, hunched over to the rest of the crowd.

Sherlock scanned around the room, in search for Molly, and found her in deep conversation with Mary. The intensity of his stare must have been strong, because she spun back to catch whoever it was observing her; then met eyes with Sherlock.

"Hey!" she smiled, and rushed to him. She looked amazing; adorned in a gown of dusty rose which was a change from her usual toddler styled outfits. Her skin looked impossibly flawless, no single blemish in sight; maintained its usual gentle demeanour, yet she seemed fiercer and he wasn't even sure if it was because of the makeup; Molly was hardly wearing any.

_It must have been the lighting. _

"Molly," he greeted stoically. She smiled at him in her usual manner, reminiscent to her old self.

"How's your head?" she asked, referring to the pale pink strip of a scar nearly concealed by his black curls.

"Alright," he answered firmly, checking to see whether Wellington was around (to which he was not).

Without thinking, she reached her hand out and traced the scar with her fingertip, an odd yet endearing sight; unaware of the mixture of emotions that were to come for the both of them. By that one, single touch.

Warmth. Sherlock felt immediate warmth when she did so, not a scalding kind of heat, it was more like hovering your hands over a small candle. It was soothing too, calming; shut him off from his overworked mind, distracted him from what he was working on.

When she pulled away he felt himself surge back to reality, blinked twice to realise where he was again.

"We're scar buddies," she joked badly, as she revealed the scar that dominated her left arm. He felt obliged to at least discern the wound, but she pulled the sleeve back down again. The silence (comfortable on her part, uncomfortable on his part) was blocked out by melodious notes located from the piano; it was Henry working his magic.

"Let's dance," Sherlock prompted, grabbed her hand as he guided her to the centre of the room; felt that odd sensation all over again.

"But I can't dance!" she defended.

"Relax. Just follow my lead," he instructed, and she did exactly that. Surprisingly she didn't fall, step on his foot, or stumble like she expected to. He was a pretty good teacher.

"Just don't spin me around and stuff, I would most definitely fall," she warned.

But who did she think she was talking to? It was Sherlock Holmes, the man who did whatever he felt like, and much to her chagrin; he ignored her protests and indeed, tried to spin her and dip her down.

And much like she warned, she indeed did come close to falling, that is, if he didn't weightlessly scoop her up and into his arms; their faces dangerously close, sent all sorts of madness in Sherlock's mind.

"You downright git," she cursed, but her giggles made her words less threatening.

"Well that was fun," Wellington's suddenly appeared in hopes for them to recoil; but they didn't.

"My turn?" he asked, his hand reached out to Molly; who was unsure of what to say.

"Of course," she answered, and took his hand, as Sherlock returned to his seat; kept a close eye on the two.

"Thank you for inviting me to your ball," she thanked him out of politeness.

"There's no need for such formalities between old faces," he muttered, no accent traced in his voice.

"Have you heard about poor Madeline, Molly? It's such a tragedy; the poor girl taken away from the only person she ever loved. And i don't mean you by the way," he scoffed.

"What have you done?" Molly accused.

"Death is a sad thing isn't it? But don't worry, time heals everything; after all I've just lost my son. Well then Molly I'd like to remind you something," he pulled her into his arms, from a distance it would look like an embrace.

"Remember that she was only taken because of him, and remember that he is being targeted because of you. Remember Miss Molly Hooper: you are to blame for all of this," he whispered softly in her ear; the words left her as a white as a sheet.

"Well, i have other people to see, have a good time Miss Hooper," he smiled and sauntered away; unaware of the many pairs of eyes that were glued to him in that exact moment.

She fled to the balcony, to recollect, checked the time; two minutes left until their plan will come to fruition.

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Henry was playing the piano, a talent he had ever since he was a child. He enjoyed pressing the keys to hear a harmonious note escape from the instrument, it was one thing he enjoyed the most. After convincing the pianist that he'd play just one song, the woman fled to the balcony where most of the food was situated; left Henry alone to his devices.

He peered to the corner, where he assumed Molly would be, but instead, saw her (actually dancing) with Sherlock. He didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or cry; Molly Hooper actually dancing?! Never in his life did he actually see her dance with a partner. She was a one show girl; perfect when it came to dancing by herself, but completely aloof with a partner. And yet, there she was, dancing away with Sherlock. He cringed at her when their eyes locked and she pulled her tongue out in response.

At that moment the repellent bastard, otherwise known as Wellington Wilson, had the audacity to break in to the beautiful sight; and whisk Molly away from the other man.

They exchanged a few words; he left her as pale as a ghost.

_Just what were they talking about?_

As soon as Molly exited to the balcony, he followed after her, curious to know what that was about.

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A small group of people were forming at the balcony.

"What's going on over there?" Wellington sauntered over with Sherlock and John beside him.

"What were you doing with the Wellington man?!" Henry bellowed, didn't even care about the amount of people he attracted.

"Listen i can explain..."

"Explain what? Why didn't you tell me about him, after i told you about Madeline?" she couldn't respond; stunned with his choice of words.

"I shouldn't have listened to you; i should've just done what i should have done..."

"Oh, you overheard our conversation huh? How uncouth," Molly sneered.

"Shut up, I'm talking!" he raged, slammed his hands on the table that separated the two. Sherlock and John rushed over to apprehend the man; probably throw a few jabs at him too.

"If you just told me before, i could've helped you! You're supposed to be my friend..." the loud sound of various objects shattering on the ground stopped him from talking any further. Molly was on her feet, her arm outright; her hand balled into a fist.

"If only you would shut up and listen! Blah, blah, blah; can you not just shut up and use that pea sized brain of yours for once?!" she boomed; sent the whole crowd to silence. John's glare transformed to a look of shock, while Sherlock remained apathetic; his eyes gave way his sense of surprise.

"Well it's your fault I've been talking so much!" he countered.

"Wow, so this is your way of shifting the blame is it? Why don't you use whatever you have in your head to sum up your points before speaking?" she retorted.

"That's rich; coming from the person who can't even speak normally!"

"What are you talking about?!"

"You know full well what I'm talking about!"

"Oh shut up, you stubborn, self-centred, impulsive block head!" she screamed and sent the table (which was now cleared from all decorative equipment) toppling over him; indicating that their argument was over.

Once he fell, the table clearly outweighing him, she flinched at realisation over what she'd done. She turned to see stunned faces (apart from Sherlock; who seemed rather proud), then rushed to the foyer and fled up the flight of stairs.

Henry threw the table off of him, met the face of a confused John and an amused Sherlock.

"You alright?" John had asked, only for the air to respond as Henry had stomped off the balcony and into the courtyard; no one was able to see the haughty smirk plastered on his face.

Their plan had worked.

"What the devil was that about?" John asked.

"No idea." Irene responded.

"You should go after her, find out about her connection with Wellington," Irene commented, though she didn't know she was referring to.

"You think so?" Sherlock jumped in as if she was referring to him.

"Yeah, you guys are friends right?" she piped up, slightly surprised that it was him who spoke up.

"Yes," he replied without hesitation, then left to find her.

"Don't forget to keep an eye on Wellington," he called out before he ran through the endless flight of stairs where Molly had rushed off to.

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She dashed up the flight of stairs, and was aiming to head into an unoccupied room.

"Molly," the silky baritone caught her off-guard, left her unsure of what to do. Sure, he was getting in the way (which seemed like the first time he was doing so) but she couldn't help but feel a sense of flattery that he was after her.

And then she remembered; he was probably just more interested in her connection with Wellington; not that she actually has one. At least she doesn't think she does.

_Remember Miss Molly Hooper: you are to blame for all of this_

The words constantly echoed in her head, as if it was a warning; persuading her not to carry on with their plan. But if she didn't then what would happen to Henry?

Shaking those thoughts out of her head, she continued walking, despite Sherlock's constant calls for her.

"Molly," he repeated, walked a slight bit faster to catch her pace.

"Not now," she huffed, thinking of a way she could get rid of him.

"Molly, don't act like this," Sherlock caught her wrist, positioned it in a way that forced her to face him, surprised to see a look of dismay registered across her face.

"What do you want?" she sighed as if she was exhausted of him, though she didn't pull from his grip.

"I want to talk to you… to see if you're alright," those foreign words left his mouth just as it did when it entered his mind.

"Well I'm fine," she answered curtly. "So you can go now."

"Molly," he said in a way that sounded like he was scolding a child.

She felt innately guilty for acting like that. She peered at her watch, realised that she was wasting a lot of time.

"What are you scheming?" he suddenly asked, piecing bits of her behaviour together. Her constant monitor of the time, her urgency to get away from him, she was on some sort of mission. And Henry was most like likely in on it too; the talk about "Madeline" made it seem very likely.

"Scheming? What are you talk…" an ear piercing screech from the hallway cut her off, which diverted Sherlock's attention from Molly to the source of the scream.

Moving without thinking, Sherlock instantly headed to the source of the noise, found Mary sobbing frantically over the pile of decapitated bodies.

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It was the perfect opportunity to flee from his wrath as his attention side-tracked to the cause of the noise. She hurried into a dimly lit room; carefully shut the grand mahogany doors behind her.

She pulled her hair from its elaborate up do and into its usual ponytail; and checked her appearance in the mirror. Okay, everything was clear and out of the way; all she had to do now was to leave the room unnoticed.

Not willing to open the doors and face the crowd (the crowd being Sherlock) she opened the doors to the balcony, and saw a sight that made her shriek.

It was the murder victim; William Wilson, sitting soundly on a plush red seat, sipping tea and smiled as if he had been eagerly awaiting for her arrival.

**I don't know why, but I find the last sentence of this chapter really funny, I tried to be serious but I just couldn't! And I hope the fluff makes up for all the confusion xD I think the answer is in plain sight because I left it in plain sight (or probably because I wrote this whole thing) but what do you guys think? Seriously, give me your theories, pleaaase. *ahem* till next time folks :)**


	10. the red ball-part 5

**AN: hello all, thanks a lot for all those reviews and follows and such; it really means a lot. But sadly, boring chapter is boring. **

"Sherlock, what's going on?" Mary, who had regained a small amount of composure, asked in between bouts of breaths.

"hm," he grunted, completely conscious of her state of shock, but was glued to the pile of bodies before him.

They were members of Scotland Yard (their badges gave him that much) and were most likely the small team that were working with Lestrade. All the members were there, lifeless and pale right before his blue eyes, except for Lestrade himself (thankfully too). Warning bells were triggered and by now, were blaring dangerously loud in his pristine mind palace.

Something was very off about these murders. The celebration consisted of the most number of guests ever to have been invited and yet members of the police force were dead. They were interfering, they were unwanted. The celebration was a trap; to slaughter the visitors that arrived with intention.

Countless more questions were stored. Lestrade's whereabouts, Wellington's intentions, Wellington's involvement, Annie Usher's murderer, Molly's involvement with Wellington, Henry's invitation, Henry's whereabouts, Molly's situation, Molly... Stop! He disregarded the summit that was distracting him from considering the answers, and established the solutions to his questions

He returned to Mary, now out of his mind palace; his body language revealed more emotions than he intended.

"Hand me your phone," he stated, as she was staring dumbfounded at the bodies. It was obvious why she was there: to find Molly and comfort her. He turned to see Molly had fled, and that action alone helped him portion more of the pieces together.

Molly is somehow involved in this; the argument she and Henry had a couple of minutes ago (which seemed like forever because of the new problems that have occurred in such small time), to throw people off their tracks, to look like enemies rather than allies.

"Hello? Oh, Sherlock how is she?" John asked from the other end of the line.

"Hand the phone to Mycroft," he ordered monotonously, his mind still flying around with theories.

"Err...Alright. What exactly is going on?"

"Lestrade is in trouble," Sherlock tried to remain calm, but the sense of urgency was crystal clear.

"Hello?Sherlock? This better be important," Sherlock could practically feel Mycroft's eye roll as he uttered those words.

"Three police officers have been mutilated with a certain detective inspector missing along with a bunch of ardent criminals walking right under our noses. I'd let you calculate the importance of the matter but right now: time is of the essence," he retorted.

"You mean to say Detective Inspector Lestrade? And what do you mean by the last part?" he replied vaguely; probably because he was in the company of others.

"We've all been set up on a trap, Mycroft. Get everyone out of here before something dire could happen. Wellington has to be involved in this," he went off on a tangent, speculating and hypothesising all sorts of plausible theories; but none of them fit the bill.

"There is no sign of Wellington here. Perhaps i should keep an eye on him while i send John to you?" Mycroft suggested.

"No need; i have his wife as an assistant," he disregarded the prospect of Mycroft taking over his duties. He was aware of Mary's avid distaste for him, (and the feeling was mutual), he also acknowledged that she would be close to non-existent, forget useless, especially because of her state of shock. But there was no way Mycroft was going to invade on their duties, even if he did just call for his assistance.

He hung up and met Mary's look of horror.

"And what do you mean I'm going to assist you?!" she asked.

"Exactly that, do keep up Mary."

Sherlock contemplated over the murder's timing. How did it take place without any other innocent bystander noticing and potentially falling victim themselves?

He peered at the bloodless bodies as they lied on the bloodstained carpet. The carpet. It wasn't soaked in huge amounts of blood; neither did it contain traces of brain matter like it ought to.

"The murders didn't occur here," he thought aloud as his eyes flickered to Mary, who was watching silently. She was the first to look away from their awkward eye contact and noticed the thin trail of crimson that almost camouflaged perfectly with the over-decorated carpet.

"Hm," he let himself think while the pieces of logic were still forming. He appreciated Mary's silence, unlike John who would start speculating right there and then, the silence gave Sherlock time to concentrate.

The trail of blood ended at a neat bookshelf.

"I've got to be wrong," Mary mused, actually chuckled.

"Well that depends on what you think. What is your hypothesis?" he asked her whilst examining the extensive bookshelf.

"Well… it's a bit farfetched, but… it could be a secret pathway," she murmured, completely embarrassed of her random outburst. After a few more examinations, he pushed the bookshelf in an awkward manner and revealed, to what had been hypothesised: a hidden pathway.

A smirk tugged on both of their lips as they realised that Mary was correct. Gingerly Mary followed the consulting detective (or as she liked to refer to him as, her husband's boyfriend).

"Something is wrong with Molly," Sherlock brought up, desperate to discuss a question in his mind palace that could easily be restored.

"Mary?" she didn't respond.

He turned back to check what on earth the woman could possibly be doing in a narrow pathway that could distract her from their fissure of a conversation, but instead his face met a cold metal pole, his body slammed to the floor, as the weapon rendered him unconscious.

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"And what was that about?" John asked Mycroft, as his phone was handed back.

"Lestrade is missing and three of his workers have been found dead," Mycroft informed in hushed tones, his eyes flickered from the small man to Anthea, who was more interested in her phone than anything else around her (as per usual).

"What?" John's look of shock was only a reminder, to Mycroft, of the severity of the news. Working for the government has a way to make one forget about the seriousness of some crimes, but if Sherlock was right in his deductions (which he usually was) then they were all in serious trouble.

"Oh God, no. He told you to send me up right?" he asked as he was heading away anyway.

"No. He wants us to keep an eye on Wellington, wherever he went," Mycroft sighed.

"But if this situation really is as urgent as it is, shouldn't we actually start sending people off?" John sighed.

"Not yet; not without proper evidence that what Sherlock assumes is correct," Mycroft instructed.

After moments of consideration, John huffed a fine and stormed out; in search of the man in question.

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Being a fatherless child and having a mother who couldn't withstand your sole existence has a toll on an infant mind. Of course, the constant reminder of your mother greatest flaw (that being your very life), is also somewhat damaging to anyone's mental wellbeing; but so can having said mother attempting to strangle you in your sleep.

But that wasn't the case for Henry Moore; the blips in his past had become his strength, it allowed him to mould into a better person. But that was only because of a certain girl that managed to pull him away from possible psychopathy when no one else could.

He was seven when he first heard of Molly Hooper, a young introverted teenager overcoming the death of her beloved father. She had opened his eyes to all sorts of things that his troubled mind shut him from. She had, unknowingly, become the maternal figure in their strange little family.

What was strange was her awkward behaviour whenever they were together. What was stranger, was how he was contemplating over her when, Wellington Wilson was sitting directly in front of him; only a coffee table divided them (the only thing that prevented him from strangling the creature)

The silence in the dimly lit basement was an eerie warning only audible for the two in particular; for they understood the meaning of that type of silence: someone was going to lose their life.

"We meet again Mister Moore," Wellington greeted coolly, his voice devoid of his usual accent.

"Indeed Mister Wilson," Henry answered stoically.

"So I take it you know why you're here?" he asked, took his china cup and placed it on his lap as he dipped various biscuits in his warm beverage.

"No actually, do enlighten me," Henry uttered.

"Oh, a smart one huh? Well it seems you haven't completed your little mission of eradicating that eagle," he spoke in a sing-song tune.

"The eagle? We know who it is: Irene Adler, there's no need for such cryptic talk. And no, I have not killed her… I'm simply waiting for a good time," he spoke before he thought.

"Oh really? Well now is a fantastic time, after all my servants and myself can cover it up and you can walk away hands free… except from the blood that will remain," Wellington sneered.

The evidence, the evidence was right there. But where was Molly? She hadn't even indicated that she was there, recording everything. It's a good thing he thought ahead and taped a recorder to his chest.

"But… why me? I can't kill; I can barely swat a fly? Why have you picked me out of all people?" he asked, curious to the answer.

The questions caught the businessman off his tracks. His snake eyes flittered from his tea to Henry, as he carefully observed him, unblinking.

"You are right… why you of all people?" he asked as if he didn't know the answer himself. "Well you're not going to know. I don't think anyone will," he answered; his voice echoed that of a solemn one.

"What? I deserve the right to know, I'm doing your dirty work!" he shouted, jumped from his seat in anger.

"No, no, no. you're not doing my dirty work. We're all part of someone else's dirty work; dancing at his command. And I highly suggest you do your bidding," the words came off like a warning.

"Uh, no. I cannot kill, I'm not from the army, and I can't do this!" Henry shouted, more than happy with the results to their conversation. Wellington definitely was in a talkative mood.

"Hm… you're right. You cannot do this," Wellington finalised as he stood up. "Well I guess there is no need for you then," he stated blandly.

"Well then boys, you know what to do," he called for his servants, and three ridiculously muscular men make an appearance. The three of them tower over the albino, anticipating the blood bath.

_Molly where are you?_

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Mycroft placed himself next to Anthea, a smile tugged in his lips.

"What is it?" Anthea asked, her eyes till glued to her phone.

"Nothing in particular, my brother can make a complete fool of himself though; to think he brought a latent criminal as his date to the ball," he sighed.

"Oh yes, I saw Miss Adler too. I wonder what her appearance has to do with this," Anthea mused.

"Nothing particular I would say. It seems he invited her because he didn't want to invite someone else," he explained. "The other option would have been Molly Hooper; and he didn't want to invite her."

"Why's that? Oh, everyone else was expecting that and to be different he decided to invite her," Anthea concluded.

"Indeed." Mycroft finalised. His eyes flittered away from his assistant and to the golden chandelier suspended in the centre of the room; and underneath happened to have been Wellington Wilson, as he sauntered in, in a different state of clothing; a purple suit with a gold waistcoat (how distasteful).

"He's back, we'd better inform Sherlock and John," he informed Anthea, who was actually looking around for a change.

As he dialled Sherlock's number on his smartphone, a small hand gripped tightly on his arm; it was Anthea, her face pale, her eyes wide in shock as she pointed in front of them.

A figure cloaked in red glided gracefully across the hall, and even more so as they sliced the head off of Wellington Wilson under the twinkling Chandelier.

**I guess I owe you all a decent explanation. I've relapsed and feel like crap, and it's clouding my mind and affecting my writing. So after this chapter I'll be off on a hiatus to try and figure out what I'm doing in life. (Hopefully I'll be back around mid-July) I hate this and I am so sorry for leaving you all at such an interesting point; I really am sorry! D: (but at least you all know about Henry and Molly's relationship now?) **


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